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THE  OLD  CATAMONT  TAVERN,  BENNINGTON. 

From  Harper's  Magazine.  Copyright,  1377,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 


BALLADS  AND  POEMS 


RELATING  TO  THE 


BURGOYNE    CAMPAIGN 


ANNOTATED  BY 

WILLIAM    L.    STONE, 
i| 

AUTHOR  OF  THE  "  LIFE  AND  TIMES  OF  SIR  WILLIAM  JOHNSON,  BART.;"  "  BUR- 
COYNE'S  CAMPAIGN  AND  ST.   LEGER'S  EXPEDITION;"     "MEMOIRS  OF 
GENERAL  AND  MADAME  RIEDESEL  ;"  "  HISTORY  OF  NEW  YORK 
CITY;"   "LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  COLONEL  WILLIAM  L. 
STONE;"  "  REMINISCENCES  OF  SARATOGA  AND  BALLS- 
TON  ;"    "THE  STONE  GENEALOGY;"    "THE 
STARIN  GENEALOGY,"  ETC.,  ETC.,  ETC. 


"  '  Land  of  Song  !'  "  said  the  warrior  bard, 
"Though  all  the  world  betray  thee, 
One  sword  at  least  thy  rights  shall  guard, 
One  faithful  harp  shall  praise  thee  !" 

MOORE. 


ALBANY,   N.  Y. 

JOEL    MUNSELL'S    SONS 

1893 


0.  20 


TO 

(general  3.  Watts  be  pester, 

OF   DUTCHESS  CO.,   S.  N.  YM 

WHOSE  WRITINGS,  BOTH  ON  REVOLUTIONARY  AND  EUROPEAN  HIS_ 
TORIES  AND  OUR  LATE  CIVIL  WAR,  ENTITLE  HIM  TO  THE  FIRST  RANK 
AS  A  MILITARY  CRITIC,  AND  WHOSE  PATRIOTISM  AND  EFFORTS  IN 
EVERYTHING  WHICH  TENDS  TO  THE  ADVANCEMENT  OF  THE  PUBLIC 
WEAL  DEMAND  THE  GRATITUDE  OF  EVERY  TRUE  CITIZEN  OF  THE 
UNITED  STATES, 

THIS  WORK 

IS   DEDICATED   BY   HIS    FRIEND 

tl)e 


M202557 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

BALLADS  RELATING  ESPECIALLY  TO  GENERAL  BURGOYNE i 

BALLADS  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  GENERAL  FRASER in 

BALLADS  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  JANE  MCCREA 128 

POEMS  ON  THE  BATTLE  OF   ORISKANY 208 

POEMS  ON  THE  BATTLE  OF  BENNINGTON 215 

POEMS  ON  THE  BATTLES  OF  BEMUS  HEIGHTS  AND  SARATOGA 234 


APPENDICES. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  THE  FORCES  UNDER  BURGOYNE  AND  GATES 275 

II.  SKETCH  OF  GENERAL  GATES 279 

III.  BURGOYNE'S  PROCLAMATION 285 

IV.  SKETCH  OF  "  TIM"  MURPHY,  THE  SHARPSHOOTER 290 

V.  SKETCH  OF  LADY  HARRIET  ACLAND 303 

VI.  SKETCH  OF  JONES,  THE  LOVER  OF  JANE  MC€REA 319 

VII.  SKETCH  OF  GENERAL  J.  WATTS  DE  PEYSTER 328 

VIII.  SKETCH  OF  "PARSON"  ALLEN,  THE  HERO  OF  BENNINGTON....  335 
IX.  HISTORY  OF  THE    "OLD   CATAMOUNT  TAVERN"   AT    BENNING 
TON 337 

X.  SPELLING  OF  THE  NAME  OF  BEMUS 342 

XL  SKETCH  OF  DR.  A.  W.  HOLDEN 349 


PREFACE. 


IN  giving  to  the  public,  and  especially  to  those  who 
have  my  u  Burgoyne's  Campaign  and  St.  Leger's  Ex 
pedition,"  a  few  words  are,  perhaps,  necessary  to 
explain  the  purpose  of  the  present  work. 

During  my  researches  while  engaged  upon  that  par 
ticular  episode  of  our  Revolutionary  history,  I  came 
across  a  number  of  quaint  ballads  relating  to  that 
campaigner  excellence*  and  it  occurred  to  me  that 
my  subscribers  to  "  Burgoyne's  Campaign"  would 
gladly  welcome  an  addenda,  so  to  speak,  of  that  work. 

Hoping,  therefore,  that  those  of  my  friends  who 
have  so  kindly  aided  me  in  my  former  publications 
will  appreciate  the  spirit  in  which  this  volume  has  been 
prepared,  I  have  published  it,  though  at  a  pecuniary 
sacrifice  to  myself. 

My  thanks  are  due  for  help  in  this  compilation  to  Gen- 

*  I  use  this  phrase  advisedly,  since  all  historical 
students  know  that  Frank  Moore  has  given  us  a  little 
volume  on  "  Revolutionary  Poems."  This  collection, 
however,  though  admirable,  does  not  include,  save  in 
a  very  few  instances,  those  which  particularly  relate  to 
the  campaign  of  Burgoyne. 


12  Preface. 

eral  John  Meredith  Read,  Consul-General  to  France  at 
Paris  during  the  Franco-German  War,  the  siege  of 
that  city  and  the  Commune,  and  for  many  years 
United  States  Minister  to  Greece ;  Mr.  James  A. 
Holden,  of  Glens  Falls,  N.  Y. ;  Mr.  Charles  M.  Bliss, 
of  Bennington,  Vt. ;  Mrs.  Charles  Stone,  of  Sandy 
Hill,  N.  Y. ;  Mr.  Franklin  Burdge,  of  New  York 
City  ;  Mr.  Jared  C.  Markham,  the  architect  of  the 
Saratoga  Monument,  of  Jersey  City,  N.  J. ;  Mr.  Theo 
dore  F.  Dvvight,  of  the  Boston  Public  Library ;  Mr. 
William  T.  Peoples,  of  the  New  York  Mercantile 
Library  ;  Mr.  George  Watson  Cole,  of  the  Jersey  City 
Free  Library  ;  Mr.  Frederick  Saunders,  of  the  Astor 
Library  ;  Dr.  Smith  Ely,  of  Newburgh,  N.  Y.  ;  Mr. 
John  W.  Jordan,  of  Philadelphia,  Pa. ;  Mr.  Bauman 
L.  Belden,  of  Elizabeth,  N.  J. ;  Hon.  Charles  S.  Les 
ter  and  Hon.  Winsor  B.  French,  of  Saratoga  Springs, 
N.  Y.,  and  Mr.  August  Hund,  of  Hoboken,  N.  J. — to 
all  of  whom  I  here  return  my  hearty  thanks.* 

*  Mrs.  Julia  C.  Dorr,  of  Rutland,  Vt,  the  deservedly 
celebrated  poetess,  contributed  to  the  Bennington 
Centennial  an  exquisitely  beautiful  poem  entitled 
"  Vermont."  As,  however,  it  contains  only  one  or  two 
incidental  allusions  to  the  battle  of  Bennington,  and 
does  not,  therefore,  come  within  the  scope  of  this  work, 
it  is  not  given  in  this  collection. 

WILLIAM  L.  STONE. 
MT.  VERNON,  N.  Y.,  October  i,  1893. 


THE  BURGOYNE  BALLADS. 


SKETCH  OF  GENERAL  BURGOYNE. 

IT  seems  eminently  proper  for  a  just  appreciation  of 
the  circumstances  under  which  the  following  ballads 
were  written,  that  the  reader  should  have  a  sketch  of 
the  personage  who  called  them  forth. 

JOHN  BURGOYNE,  a  British  soldier,  was  born  on 
February  24th,  1723.  He  was  the  eldest  son  of  John 
Burgoyne  and  Anna  Maria,  daughter  of  Charles 
Burneston  of  Hackney,  in  Middlesex.  The  popular 
belief  that  he  was  a  natural  son  of  Lord  Bingley  is 
pure  fiction,  and  had  its  rise  in  the  malicious  gossip  of 
that  prince  of  gossips — Horace  Walpole.  Burgoyne 
was  educated  at  Westminster,  and  entered  the  army  at 
an  early  age.  While  at  Preston  with  his  regiment  he 
eloped  with  Lady  Charlotte  Stanley,  daughter  of  the 
eleventh  Earl  of  Derby  ;  and  the  earl,  becoming  rec 
onciled  to  the  marriage,  obtained  for  him  a  captaincy 
in  the  Eleventh  Dragoons,  June  i4th,  1756.  He  was 
in  the  attack  on  Cherbourg  in  1758,  and  also  in  the 
abortive  attempt  on  St.  Malo  the  same  year;  was  ap 
pointed,  May  loth,  1758,  captain-lieutenant  in  the 
Coldstream  Guards,  and  the  following  year  was  pro 
moted  to  the  command  of  the  Sixteenth  Dragoons, 
called  subsequently  "  Burgoyne's  Light-horse."  He 
was  elected  to  Parliament  in  1762,  held  his  seat  in  that 


2  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

body  continuously  until  his  death,  and  took  an  active 
part  in  matters  relating  to  India,  hence  incurring  the 
displeasure  of  "Junius,"  by  whom  he  was  severely 
criticised.  He  was  made  major-general,  May  25th, 
1772.  Appointed  to  a  command  in  America,  he  arrived 
in  Boston,  May  25th,  1775,  and  witnessed  the  battle 
of  Bunker  Hill,  of  which  he  gave  a  graphic  descrip 
tion  in  a  letter  to  his  brother-in-law,  Lord  Stanley.  He 
was  commissioned,  January  ist,  1776,  lieutenant-gen 
eral  in  America  only,  and  took  part  in  the  opera 
tions  of  that  year  for  expelling  the  Americans  from 
Canada ;  but  in  November,  dissatisfied  with  his  sub 
ordinate  position  under  Carleton,  he  returned  to  Eng 
land.  In  December  of  that  same  year  he  concerted 
with  the  British  ministry  a  plan  for  the  campaign  of 
1777.  A  large  force  under  his  command  was  to  go  to 
Albany  by  way  of  Lakes  Champlain  and  George,  while 
another  body,  under  Sir  Henry  Clinton,  advanced 
up  the  Hudson.  Simultaneously,  Colonel  Barry  St. 
Leger  was  to  make  a  diversion,  by  way  of  Oswego,  on 
the  Mohawk  River. 

In  pursuance  of  this  plan,  Burgoyne,  in  June,  began 
his  advance  with  one  of  the  best-equipped  armies  that 
had  ever  left  the  shores  of  England.  Proceeding  up 
Lake  Champlain,  he  easily  forced  the  evacuation  of 
Crown  Point,  Ticonderoga  and  Fort  Anne.  But  in 
stead  of  availing  himself  of  the  water-carriage  of  Lake 
George,  at  the  head  of  which  there  was  a  direct  road 
to  Fort  Edward,  he  advanced  upon  that  work  by  land, 
consuming  three  weeks  in  cutting  a  road  through  the 
woods  and  building  bridges  over  swamps.  This  gave 
time  for  Schuyler  to  gather  the  yeomanry  together,  and 
for  Washington  to  re-enforce  that  general  with  troops, 
under  Morgan,  from  the  Southern  Department.  Bur 
goyne,  also,  lost  valuable  time  and  received  a  fatal 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  3 

check  by  his  disastrous  attack  on  Bennington.  At 
length,  finding  his  progress  stopped  by  the  entrench 
ments  of  Gates  at  Bemus  Heights,  nine  miles  south 
of  Saratoga  (Schuylerville,  N.  Y.),  he  endeavored  to 
extricate  himself  from  his  perilous  position  by  fighting. 
Two  battles  were  fought  on  nearly  the  same  ground 
on  September  iQth  and  October  7th,  1777.  The 
first  was  indecisive:  the  second  resulted  in  so  com 
plete  a  rout  for  the  British,  that,  leaving  his  sick  and 
wounded  to  the  compassion  of  Gates,  Burgoyne  re 
treated  to  Saratoga.  Here,  finding  that  his  provi 
sions  were  giving  out,  Stark  in  his  rear,  and  that  there 
was  no  chance  of  escape,  he  capitulated  with  his  en 
tire  army,  October  i7th,  1777.  This  event  was  the 
turning-point  in  the  American  Revolution.  It  se 
cured  the  French  alliance,  and  lifted  the  clouds  of  moral 
and  financial  gloom  that  had  settled  upon  the  leaders, 
even  the  hopeful  Washington. 

Burgoyne,  until  his  unfortunate  campaign,  stood 
very  high  in  his  profession.  He  had  made  a  most 
brilliant  record  on  the  banks  of  the  Tagus  for  dash 
under  that  master  in  the  art  of  war,  the  famous  Count 
Schaumberg-Lippe.  He  also  added  to  a  prepossessing 
exterior  the  polished  manners  and  keen  sagacity  of  a 
courtier.  He  was  likewise  witty  and  brave,  but  he 
was  also  hasty  and  self-willed.  Desirous  of  doing 
everything  himself,  he  rarely  consulted  with  others  ; 
yet  he  never  knew  how  to  keep  a  plan  secret.  While 
in  a  subordinate  position  he  was  continually  carping 
at  his  military  superiors ;  yet  when  given  a  separate 
command,  he  was  guilty  of  the  same  faults  that  he 
had  reprehended  in  others.  His  boastful  ways — as 
will  be  seen  in  some  of  the  following  ballads — drew 
upon  him  the  nicknames  of  "Sir  Jack  Brag"  and 
"Chrononnotonthologos,"  a  character  in  a  burlesque 


4:  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

play  by  Henry  Carey.  Being  a  sybarite,  he  often 
neglected  the  duties  of  a  general ;  and  while  he  was 
enjoying  his  wines  and  choice  food,  his  army  suffered 
the  keenest  want.  Early  in  1778  he  returned  to  Eng 
land,  and  justly  threw  the  failure  of  the  expedition 
upon  the  Ministry,  since,  in  arranging  the  campaign, 
he  had  most  strenuously  insisted  that  success  depended 
upon  Howe's  co-operation.  Had  he  been  properly 
supported,  he  would,  despite  mistakes,  have  unques 
tionably  reached  Albany,  as  Gates  would  not  have 
been  at  Bemus  Heights  to  oppose  him.  On  his 
arrival  in  England  he  was  received  very  coldly  by  the 
court  and  people,  the  king,  indeed,  refusing  to  see 
him.*  Having  in  vain  demanded  a  court-martial,  he 
finally  succeeded  in  obtaining  a  hearing  on  the  floor 
of  Parliament;  and  in  1780  he  published  a  narrative 
of  the  campaign  and  a  vindication  of  himself  in  a 
work  entitled  "A  State  of  the  Expedition."  Joining 
the  opposition,  he  resigned,  in  1779,  all  his  offices. 
Upon  a  change  in  the  ministry,  he  regained  somewhat 
of  his  popularity,  and  in  1782  was  restored  to  his 
rank  in  the  army,  and  appointed  prize-councillor  and 
commander-in-chief  in  Ireland.  In  1784  he  retired 
from  public  life,  and,  possessing  considerable  literary 
ability,  amused  himself  in  writing  numerous  comedies 
and  poems,  which  were  published  in  two  volumes  in 
1808.  He  had  already,  while  in  America,  written  two 
farces,  entitled  respectively  "  The  Siege  of  Boston"  and 
"  The  Maid  of  the  Oaks,"  both  of  which  were  performed 
with  great  eclat.  Two  other  dramas,  both  of  which 

*  Indeed,  had  the  king  granted  him  an  audience,  it 
would  have  been  tantamount  to  acknowledging  that 
he,  George  III.,  had  erred — and  when  was  a  king, 
especially  this  one,  ever  known  to  admit  a  mistake ! 


Burgoyne  Ballads.  5 

were  equally  successful,  were  "  The  Lord  of  the  Manor" 
and  "  Richard  Cosur  de  Lion."  He  was  also  the 
author  of  a  comedy  entitled  "  The  Heiress,"  which  had  a 
great  run,  and  has  been  pronounced  by  competent 
critics  "one  of  the  best  productions  of  the  modern 
British  drama." 

The  tale  of  "  The  Lord  of  the  Manor"  seems,  in  some 
degree,  to  have  been  disguised  in  the  modification 
of  the  character  and  circumstances  by  the  incident 
of  his  own  matrimonial  connection ;  for,  as  above 
stated,  his  was  a  clandestine  and  unauthorized  mar 
riage,  at  a  time  when  he  held  only  a  subaltern's  com 
mission  in  the  army,  and  is  said  to  have  excited  at 
first  the  resentment  of  the  lady's  father  to  such  a 
degree  that  he  declared  his  resolution  never  to  admit 
the  offenders  into  his  presence.  As  we  have  seen,  a 
reconciliation  was  effected,  and  was  succeeded  by  a 
warm  and  lasting  attachment.  It  is  probable;  also, 
that  the  memory  of  his  wife,  who  died  in  1776,  at 
Kensington  Palace,  during  his  absence  in  America,  is 
embalmed  by  the  affectionate  regrets  of  Burgoyne  in 
that  beautiful  air  of  his  composition  : 

11  Encompassed  in  an  angel's  frame, 

An  angel's  virtues  lay  ; 
Too  soon  did  heaven  assert  the  claim, 
And  call  its  own  away. 

"  My  Anna's  worth,  my  Anna's  charms, 

Must  never  more  return  ! 
What  now  shall  fill  these  widow'd  arms, 
Ah  me  !  my  Anna's  urn  !"* 

*  One  would  suppose  from  this  affectionate  effusion 
that  his  devoted  attachment  to  his  wife — and  of  that 
fact  there  seems  to  be  no  doubt — would  have  pre- 


6  Tlie  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Burgoyne,  also,  was  one  of  the  managers  of  the 
trial  for  the  impeachment  of  Lord  Hastings,  but  he 
did  not  live  to  see  the  result  of  that  famous  trial,  his 
death  occurring  in  London,  on  August  4th,  1792, 
caused  by  gout  in  the  stomach.  There  were,  how 
ever,  not  a  few  of  his  enemies  who  did  not  scruple  to 
say  that  he  was  a  suicide,  one  American  Loyalist, 
who  was  in  England  at  the  time,  and  resided  within  a 
few  doors  of  his  (Burgoyne's)  dwelling,  writing  home 
as  follows  :  "  He  fell  by  his  own  hand,  a  prey  to  dis 
appointment  and  neglect."  There  seems,  however,  to 
be  no  real  foundation  for  this  statement. 

By  his  wife,  Burgoyne  had  but  one  daughter,  who 
died  in  childhood  ;  but  by  Miss  Susan  Caulfield,  after 
his  wife's  death,  he  had  four  children,  of  whom  the 

vented  the  licentious  conduct  of  Burgoyne  during  his 
American  campaign  (see  the  account  of  his  revelling 
in  the  arms  of  his  mistress  during  the  sufferings  of  his 
army,  just  before  his  surrender,  as  given  by  Mrs.  Gen 
eral  von  Riedesel,  "  Letters  of  Madame  von  Riedesel," 
Munsell  &  Son,  Albany,  N.  Y.)  ;  but  these  inconsis 
tencies  are  hard  to  account  for.  Indeed,  public  men 
of  that  time  seem  to  have  thought  that  the  breaking 
of  their  marriage  vows  was  but  a  venial  offence.  On 
this  subject  see  Alexander  Hamilton's  account  of  his 
liaison  with  a  woman,  given  unblushingly  to  the  public 
as  a  defence  against  the  charge  of  his  having,  while 
Secretary  of  the  Treasury,  been  careless  in  money 
affairs.  This  pamphlet,  in  which  Hamilton  gave  this 
statement  to  the  public,  is  now  extremely  rare,  the 
only  two  copies  of  it  in  existence,  as  we  are  aware, 
being  one  in  the  library  of  the  New  York  Historical 
Society,  and  the  other  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  B.  L. 
Belden,  of  Elizabeth,  N.  J. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  7 

late  Sir  John  Burgoyne,  of  Crimean  fame,  was  the 
eldest.  His  descendants  have  filled  many  honorable 
positions  in  the  British  army  and  navy,  and  several  of 
them  are  still  (1893)  living.  For  an  exhaustive 
sketch  of  Burgoyne  and  an  analysis  of  his  campaigns, 
See  "  Hadden's  Journal,"  edited  by  that  indefatigable 
and  authoritative  writer,  General  Horatio  Rogers,  of 
Providence,  R.  I  * 


BURGOYNE'S    PROCLAMATION^ 

[A  burlesque   ballad  by  Governor  William    Livingston,    of   New  Jersey. 
First  published  in  the  New  York  Journal,  September  8th,  1777.] 

BY  John  Burgoyne  and  Burgoyne  John,  sir, 
And  grac'd  with  titles  still  more  higher, 

*  As  there  are  a  number  of  allusions  in  the  follow 
ing  ballads  to  the  forces  of  the  two  contending  armies, 
and  as  scarcely  any  writer,  either  contemporary 
or  otherwise,  agrees  in  the  number,  it  is  thought 
entirely  germane  to  the  present  work  to  give  in 
Appendix  No.  I.  a  correct  authorized  statement  both 
of  the  beleaguering  army,  under  Gates,  and  of  those 
who  surrendered  to  it,  under  Burgoyne. 

f  As  a  prelude  to  his  operations,  Burgoyne  issued 
from  Crown  Point,  on  Lake  Champlain,  a  pompous, 
grandiloquent,  and  haughty-minded  proclamation,  in 
which,  after  reciting  a  number  of  his  own  titles,  eked 
out  with  a  string  of  et  cetczras,  to  indicate  the  rest,  he 
made  a  magnificent  parade  of  the  number  and  strength 
of  his  army,  and  displayed  in  formidable  view  the  body 
of  savages  by  which  he  announced  he  was  going 
to  accomplish  great  things ;  at  the  same  time  com 
manding  the  Americans  to  lay  down  their  arms 


8  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

For  I'm  lieutenant-general  too, 

Of  Georgie's  troops  both  red  and  blue, 

and  return  to  their  duty,  and  promising  them  mercy 
upon  their  speedy  submission,  but  threatening  them 
with  the  most  terrible  vengeance  if  they  persisted 
in  their  rebellion.  The  effects  of  this  proclama 
tion,  however,  were  entirely  different  from  what  its 
author  surmised  would  be  the  case.  Instead  of  the 
terror  which  he  thought  it  would  excite,  it  produced 
throughout  the  colonies  only  indignation  and  con 
tempt.  Governor  Livingston,  of  New  Jersey  (and 
not  Francis  Hopkinson,  as  some  have  supposed),  by 
turning  it  ingeniously  into  Hudibrastic  verse,  made 
the  proclamation  an  object  both  of  general  derision  and 
of  diversion.  John  Holt,  of  New  York  City,  an  old 
and  highly  respectable  editor,  published  it  in  his 
newspaper,  the  Gazette,  in  Poughkeepsie,  heading  it 
with  "  Pride  Goeth  before  Destruction,  and  a  Haughty 
Spirit  before  a  Fall."  u  It  is,"  says  Dr.  Dwight,  in  his 
"Travels,"  ''remarkable  that  the  four  most  haughty 
proclamations  issued  by  military  commanders  in  mod 
ern  times  have  prefaced  their  ruin — this  of  General 
Burgoyne,  that  of  the  Duke  of  Brunswick,  when  he 
was  entering  France,  that  of  Bonaparte  in  Egypt, 
and  that  of  General  Le  Clerc,  on  his  arrival  at  St. 
Domingo."  To  this  list  might  also  be  added  that  of 
General  Lee  of  the  Confederate  Army  in  our  late  Civil 
War,  just  previous  to  his  surrender. 

Governor  William  Livingston,  the  author  of  this 
poem  and  the  Governor  of  New  Jersey,  was  born  in 
Albany,  N.  Y.,  November  30th,  1723,  and  died  in 
Elizabethtown,  N.  J.  (now  Elizabeth),  July  25th, 
1790.  He  was  graduated  at  Yale  in  1741,  at  the  head 
of  his  class,  and  then  began  the  study  of  law  under 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  9 

On 'this  extensive  continent, 
And  of  Queen  Charlotte's  regiment 
Of  eight  dragoons  the  colonel, 
And  governor  eke  of  Castle  Will, 
And  furthermore  when  I  am  there, 
In  house  of  commons  there  appear, 
(Hoping  ere  long  to  be  a  peer) 
Being  a  member  of  that  virtuous  band 
Who  always  vote  at  North's  command, 
Directing  too  the  fleets  and  troops 
From  Canada  as  thick  as  hops  ; 
And  all  my  titles  to  display, 
I'll  end  with  thrice  et  cetera. 

The  troops  consign'd  to  my  command, 
Like  Hercules  to  purge  the  land, 
Intend  to  act  in  combination 
With  th'  other  forces  of  the  nation, 

James  Alexander,  completing  his  course  under 
William  Smith.  He  served  with  distinction  in  many 
civic  and  State  offices,  and  in  1787  was  a  delegate  to 
the  convention  that  framed  the  United  States  Consti 
tution.  He  was  also  one  of  the  original  trustees  of  the 
New  York  Society  Library,  and  in  1751  was  made 
one  of  the  trustees  of  King's  (now  Columbia)  College, 
but  declined  to  qualify  when  he  found  that  the  Presi 
dent  must  be  a  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England. 
He  was  the  author  of  various  works  of  distinction 
in  their  day.  As  President  Dwight  says,  "  His  imag 
ination  was  brilliant,  his  wit  sprightly  and  pungent,  his 
understanding  powerful,  his  taste  refined  and  his  con 
ceptions  bold  and  masterly.  His  views  of  political 
subjects  were  expansive,  clear  and  just.  Of  freedom, 
both  civil  and  religious,  he  was  a  distinguished  cham 
pion." 


10  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Displaying  wide  thro'  every  quarter 

What  Britain's  justice  would  be  after. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  show  it, 

And  every  mother's  son  must  know  it, 

That  what  at  first  she  meant  to  gain 

By  requisitions  and  chicane, 

She's  now  determined  to  acquire 

By  kingly  reason  ;  sword  and  fire. 

I  can  appeal  to  all  your  senses, 

Your  judgments,  feelings,  tastes  and  fancies  ; 

Your  ears  and  eyes  have  heard  and  seen, 

How  causeless  this  revolt  has  been  ; 

And  what  a  dust  your  leaders  kick  up, 

In  this  rebellious  civil  hickup, 

And  how  upon  this  curs'd  foundation, 

Was  rear'd  the  system  of  vexation, 

Over  a  stubborn  generation. 

But  now  inspired  with  patriot  love 
I  come  th'  oppression  to  remove  ; 
To  free  you  from  the  heavy  clog 
Of  every  tyrant  demagogue, 
Who  for  the  most  romantic  story, 
Claps  into  limbo  loyal  Tory, 
All  hurly  burly,  hot  and  hasty, 
Without  a  writ  to  hold  him  fast  by ; 
Nor  suffers  any  living  creature 
(Led  by  the  dictates  of  his  nature), 
To  fight  in  green  for  Britain's  cause, 
Or  aid  us  to  restore  her  laws  ; 
In  short  the  vilest  generation 
Which  in  vindictive  indignation, 
Almighty  vengeance  ever  hurl'd 
From  this  to  the  infernal  world. 
A  Tory  cannot  move  his  tongue, 
But  whip,  in  prison  he  is  flung, 


T/ie  Burgoyne  Ballads.  11 

His  goods  and  chattels  made  a  prey 
By  those  vile  mushrooms  of  a  day, 
He's  tortur'd  too,  and  scratch'd  and  bit 
And  plung'd  into  a  dreary  pit ; 
Where  he  must  suffer  sharper  doom, 
Than  ere  was  hatched  by  church  of  Rome. 

These  things  are  done  by  rogues,  who  dare 
Profess  to  breathe  in  freedom's  air. 
To  petticoats  alike  and  breeches 
Their  cruel  domination  stretches, 
For  the  sole  crime,  or  sole  suspicion, 
(What  worse  is  done  by  th'  inquisition  ?) 
Of  still  adhering  to  the  crown, 
Their  tyrants  striving  to  kick  down, 
Who  by  perverting  law  and  reason, 
Allegiance  construe  into  treason. 
Religion  too  is  often  made 
A  stalking  horse  to  drive  the  trade, 
And  warring  churches  dare  implore 
Protection  from  th'  Almighty  Pow'r ; 
They  fast  and  pray,  in  Providence 
Profess  to  place  their  confidence ; 
And  vainly  think  the  Lord  of  all 
Regards  our  squabbles  on  this  ball ; 
Which  would  appear  as  droll  in  Britain 
As  any  whims  that  one  could  hit  on  ; 
Men's  consciences  are  set  at  naught 
Nor  reason  valued  at  a  groat ; 
And  they  that  will  not  swear  and  fight 
Must  sell  their  all,  and  say  good-night. 

By  such  important  views  they're  pres't  to, 
I  issue  this,  my  manifesto. 
I,  the  great  knight  of  de  la  Mancha, 
Without  Squire  Carleton  my  sancho, 


12  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Will  tear  you  limb  from  limb  asunder, 

With  cannon,  blunderbuss  and  thunder  ; 

And  spoil  your  feathering  and  your  tarring  ; 

And  cagg  you  up  for  pickled  herring 

In  front  of  troops  as  spruce  as  beaux, * 

And  ready  to  lay  on  their  blows, 

I'll  spread  destruction  far  and  near  : 

And  when  I  cannot  kill  I'll  spare, 

Inviting  by  these  presents  all, 

Both  young  and  old  and  great  and  small, 

And  rich  and  poor  and  Whig  and  Tory, 

In  cellar  deep  or  lofty  story  ; 

Where'er  my  troops  at  my  command 

Shall  swarm  like  locusts  o'er  the  land. 

(And  they  shall  march  from  the  North  Pole, 

As  far  at  least  as  Pensacole,) 

To  break  off  their  communications, 

That  I  can  save  their  habitations ; 

For  finding  that  Sir  William's  plundersf 

Prove  in  the  event  apparent  blunders, 

* "  Spruce  as  beaux,"  in  allusion  to  the  fact  that 
during  the  entire  march  of  the  British  troops  under 
Burgoyne,  the  officers  seemed  to  look  upon  the  expe 
dition  as  a  kind  of  gala  day,  and,  clothed  in  their  best 
regimentals  in  most  dandified  fashion,  they  escorted  the 
ladies  of  the  party  through  the  forest  in  the  most 
gallant  style.  This  march  through  the  wilderness  is 
graphically  illustrated  in  one  of  the  bronze  tablets  in 
the  Saratoga  Monument  at  Schuylerville,  N.  Y., 
built  by  Booth  Brothers,  of  New  York  City,  and  by 
whom  its  corner-stone  was  presented  to  the  Saratoga 
Monument  Association. 

fSir  William  Howe  is  here  alluded  to.  He  was,  as 
is  well  known,  depended  on  both  by  the  British  min- 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  13 

It  is  my  full  determination 
To  check  all  kinds  of  depredation  ; 
But  when  I've  got  you  in  my  povv'r, 
Favor'd  is  he  I  last  devour. 

From  him  who  loves  a  quiet  life, 

And  keeps  at  home  to  kiss  his  wife, 

And  drink  success  to  King  Pygmalion, 

And  calls  all  congresses  rebscallion, 

With  neutral  stomach  eats  his  supper, 

Nor  deems  the  contest  worth  a  copper, 

I  will  not  defalcate  a  groat, 

Nor  force  his  wife  to  cut  his  throat ; 

But  with  his  doxy  he  may  stay, 

And  live  to  fight  another  day  ; 

Drink  all  the  cider  he  has  made 

And  have  to  boot  a  green  cockade. 

But  as  I  like  a  good  Sir  Loin, 

And  mutton  chop  when  e'er  I  dine, 

And  my  poor  troops  have  long  kept  Lent, 

Not  for  religion  but  for  want, 

Who  e'er  secretes  cow,  bull,  or  ox, 

Or  shall  presume  to  hide  his  flocks, 

Or  with  felonious  hand  eloign 

Pig,  duck,  or  gosling  from  Burgoyne, 


istry  and  by  Burgoyne  to  effect  a  diversion  in  the  latter's 
favor  by  advancing  up  the  Hudson,  toward  Albany, 
thus  directing  the  forces  under  Gates.  Why  he  did 
not  do  so  is  now  plain — his  special  instructions  to  that 
effect  having  been  by  accident  pigeoned-holed,  and 
never  having  reached  him.  See  Stone's  "  Burgoyne" 
and  Rogers's  "  Hadden." 


14:  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Or  dare  to  pull  the  bridges  down, 

My  boys  to  puzzle  or  to  drown ; 

Or  smuggle  hay,  or  plough,  or  harrow, 

Cart,  horses,  wagons,  or  wheelbarrow ; 

Or  'thwart  the  path  lay  straw  or  switch, 

As  folks  are  wont  to  stop  a  witch, 

I'll  hang  him  as  the  Jews  did  Haman  ; 

And  smoke  his  carcass  for  a  gammon. 

I'll  pay  in  coin  for  what  I  eat, 

Or  continental  counterfeit  ; 

But  what's  more  likely  still,  I  shall 

(So  fare  my  troops)  not  pay  at  all. 

With  the  most  Christian  spirit  fir'd, 

And  by  true  soldiership  inspir'd, 

I  speak  as  men  do  in  a  passion 

To  give  my  speech  the  more  impression, 

If  any  should  so  harden'd  be 

As  to  expect  immunity, 

Because  prociil  a  fulminc, 

I  will  let  loose  the  dogs  of  Hell, 

Ten  thousand  Indians,  who  shall  yell, 

And  foam,  and  tear,  and  grin,  and  roar, 

And  drench  their  moccasins  in  gore  ; 

To  these  I'll  give  full  scope  and  play 

From  Ticonderog  to  Florida  ; 

They'll  scalp  your  heads,  and  kick  your  shins, 

And  rip  your  guts,  and  flay  your  skins, 

And  of  your  ears  be  nimble  croppers, 

And  make  your  thumbs  tobacco-stoppers. 

If  after  all  these  lovely  warnings, 

My  wishes'  and  my  bowels'  yearnings, 

You  shall  remain  as  deaf  as  adder, 

Or  grow  with  hostile  rage  the  madder, 

I  swear  by  George  and  by  St.  Paul 

I  will  exterminate  you  all. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  15 

Subscribed  with  my  manual  sign 

To  test  these  presents,  JOHN  BURGOYNE.* 


A  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 

BY  JOHN  TRUMBULL.f 

I  SAW  along  the  prostrate  strand 
Our  baffled  gen'rals  quit  the  land, 

*Tvvo  burlesque  proclamations,  written  in  a  similar 
caustic  vein  as  this  one,  were  published  by  the  wags 
of  the  day  while  Gage  was  in  command  at  Boston,  in 
1775,  and  Lord  Rawdon  was  in  command  of  the 
South,  in  1781.  The  first  was  entitled  ".Torn  Gage's 
Proclamation,"  and  the  second  "  Lord  Rawdon's  Proc 
lamation."  As  these  do  not  come  within  the  scope 
of  this  work,  they  are  not  given.  The  curious  reader, 
however,  will  find  them  in  Moore's  "Diary  of  the 
American  Revolution,"  Vol.  I.,  page  93.  The  procla 
mation  of  Burgoyne,  however,  will  be  found  in  Ap 
pendix  No.  III. 

f  John  Trumbull,  poet,  born  in  Westbury  (now 
Watertown),  Conn.,  April  24th,  1 750 ;  died  in  De 
troit,  Mich.,  May  loth,  1831.  Me  graduated  from  Yale 
in  1767,  and  with  his  friend,  Timothy  Dwight,  wrote 
papers  in  the  style  of  the  Spectator,  which  were  pub 
lished  in  the  Boston  and  New  Haven  journals  in 
1769.  He  wrote  many  works,  the  chief  of  which  and 
on  which  rests  his  principal  reputation,  was  "  McFin- 
gal"  (Hartford,  1782).  Its  popularity  was  great — so 
much  so  that  there  were  more  than  thirty  pirated  im 
pressions  of  the  poem  in  pamphlet  and  other  forms. 
This  poem  was  one  of  the  keenest  satires  of  the  Revo- 


16  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

And  swift  as  frighted  mermaids  flee* 
T'  our  boasted  element,  the  sea ! 
Resign  that  long  contested  shore, 
Again  the  prize  of  rebel  power, 
And  tow'rd  their  town  of  refuge  fly, 
Like  convict  Jews  condemn'd  to  die.f 
Then  tow'rd  the  north  I  turned  my  eyes, 
Where  Saratoga's  heights  arise, 
And  saw  our  chosen  vet'ran  band 
Descend  like  terror  o'er  the  land  ;  \ 

lutionary  period  ;  and  despite  of  its  doggerel  rhymes 
and  Hudibrastic  measure,  it  is  a  profoundly  scholarly 
production.  The  above  lines  are  from  the  fourth  canto 
of  this  poem. 

*  Alluding  to  the  hasty  departure  of  the  British 
from  Boston,  when  Howe  perceived  that  he  could  no 
longer  keep  it.  Although  Washington  had  tacitly 
consented,  on  the  application  of  Howe,  to  allow  him 
to  depart  unmolested,  yet  great  terror  pervaded  the 
ranks  of  the  enemy  and  the  households  of  the  Tories. 
They  all  went  aboard  the  ships  on  Sunday  morning, 
March  I7th;  and  on  the  same  day  the  deserted  city 
was  taken  possession  of  by  General  Putnam  in  the 
name  of  the  Thirteen  United  Colonies. 

f  This  is  an  allusion  to  the  cities  among  the  Jews, 
in  which,  if  a  murderer  or  other  criminal  could  reach 
before  arrest,  he  was  safe  from  punishment.  The  city 
of  refuge  here  alluded  to  was  Halifax,  in  Nova  Scotia, 
to  which  the  British  army  fled. 

%  This  was,  up  to  that  time,  the  victorious  army  of 
Burgoyne,  which  after  capturing  Ticonderoga  and 
Mount  Independence  gained  a  victory  at  Hubbard- 
ton,  and  destroyed  the  American  stores  at  Skenes- 
borough  (now  Whitehall,  N.  Y.),  at  the  head  of  Lake 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  17 

T  oppose  this  fury  of  alarms, 

Saw  all  New  England  wake  to  arms, 

And  ev'ry  Yankey  full  of  mettle 

Swarm  forth  like  bees  at  sound  of  kettle.* 

Not  Rome,  when  Tarquin  raped  Lucretia,f 

Saw  wilder  must'ring  of  militia. 

Thro'  all  the  woods  and  plains  of  fight, 

What  mortal  battles  fill'd  my  sight, 

While  British  corses  strew'd  the  shore, 

And  Hudson  ting'd  his  streams  with  gore  ! 

What  tongue  can  tell  the  dismal  day, 

Or  paint  the  parti-color' d  fray  ; 


Champlain.  Then,  flushed  with  these  successes,  Bur 
goyne  marched  slowly  (being  greatly  impeded  by  the 
action  of  General  Schuyler  in  felling  trees  across  his 
path)  through  the  wilderness  toward  Fort  Edward — 
his  objective  point  on  the  Hudson  River.  The  farm 
ers  along  this  route  fled  in  terror,  dreading  the  sav 
ages  who  accompanied  the  invaders. 

*  When  bees  are  swarming,  loud  beating  upon  so 
norous  metal,  such  as  tin  pans,  kettles,  etc.,  causes  them 
to  alight,  or  "  settle,"  when  they  are  without  difficulty 
placed  in  a  newly  prepared  hive. 

f  The  rape  of  Lucretia,  by  Sextus  Tarquinius,  is 
given  in  the  old  legends  as  the  proximate  cause  of 
kingly  power  in  Rome.  The  tragic  result  of  the  out 
rage  caused  Brutus  to  swear,  by  the  pure  blood  which 
incarnadined  a  dagger  with  which  Lucretia  had  stab 
bed  herself,  that  he  would  pursue  to  the  uttermost 
Tarquinius  and  all  his  race,  and  thenceforward  suffer 
no  man  to  be  king  at  Rome.  The  aroused  people 
gathered  together,  and  passed  a  decree  to  the  same 
effect,  and  Tarquin  the  Superb  was  banished. 


18  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

When  yeomen  left  their  fields  afar 
To  plough  the  crimson  plains  of  war ; 
When  zeal  to  swords  transformed  their  shares, 
And  turned  their  pruning-hooks  to  spears, 
Changed  tailor's  geese  to  guns  and  ball, 
And  stretch'd  to  pikes  the  cobbler's  awl ;  * 
While  hunters  fierce  like  mighty  Nimrod, 
Made  on  our  troops  a  daring  inroad  ; 
And  levelling  squint  on  barrel  round, 
Brought  our  beau-officers  to  ground  ;f 

*  The  Loyalists  often  taunted  the  Whigs  because 
some  of  their  leaders  were  mechanics  and  tradesmen 
(Greene  was  a  blacksmith  and  Knox  a  bookseller). 
In  the  temporary  theatres  established  by  the  British 
in  Boston,  New  York,  Philadelphia  and  Charlottes- 
ville,  Va.,  during  the  war,  these  taunts  formed  a  staple 
of  the  amusements.  It  was  so  even  after  the  war. 
Thus,  on  one  occasion,  a  play  was  in  course  of  per 
formance  in  a  London  theatre,  in  which  American 
officers  were  represented  as  mechanics  of  every  kind. 
In  the  midst  of  the  hilarity  which  the  play  occasioned 
on  that  account,  an  American  sailor  in  the  gallery 
shouted,  "  Hurrah!  England  whipped  by  cobblers  and 
tailors  !"  Thus,  the  tables  were  turned  upon  John 
Bull. 

f  This  has  reference  to  the  death  of  General  Fraser 
during  the  second  battle  of  Saratoga,  on  October  7th, 
1777.  Dressed  in  full  uniform,  he  made  a  conspicu 
ous  mark.  Colonel  Daniel  Morgan,  the  commander 
of  the  Rifle  Brigade,  and  who  had  been  sent  on  by 
Washington  from  the  Southern  department  to  aid 
General  Gates,  perceiving  that  the  fate  of  the  day  rest 
ed  upon  that  officer  (Fraser),  took  twelve  of  his  sharp 
shooters  aside,  among  whom  was  the  celebrated  marks- 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  19 

While  rifle-frocks  sent  gen'rals  cap'ring, 
And  redcoats  shrunk  from  leather  apron, 
And  epaulette  and  gorget  run 
From  whinyard  brown  and  rusty  gun  ; 
While  sunburnt  wigs  in  high  command 
Rush  furious  on  our  frighted  band, 
And  ancient  beards  and  hoary  hair 
Like  meteors  stream  in  troubled  air.* 
With  locks  unshorn  not  Samson  more 
Made  useless  all  the  show  of  war, 
Nor  fought  with  asses'  jaw  for  rarity, 
With  more  success  or  singularity,  f 
I  saw  our  vet'ran  thousands  yield 
And  pile  their  muskets  on,  the  field, 
And  peasant  guards  in  rueful  plight 
March  off  our  captured  bands  from  sight  ; 

man,  "  Tim"  Murphy — men  on  whose  precision  of  aim 
he  could  rely — and  said  to  them  :  "  That  gallant  officer 
yonder  is  General  Fraser.  I  admire  and  respect  him, 
but  it  is  necessary  for  our  good  that  he  should  die. 
Take  your  station  and  do  your  duty.  Within  a  few 
moments  a  rifle-ball  cut  the  crupper  of  Fraser's  horse, 
and  another,  a  moment  after,  passed  through  his  horse's 
mane.  Calling  his  attention  to  this,  Fraser's  aide  said  : 
"  It  is  evident  that  you  are  marked  out  for  particular 
aim  ;  would  it  not  be  prudent  for  you  to  retire  from 
this  place  ?"  Fraser  replied :  "  My  duty  forbids  me  to 
fly  from  danger."  The  next  moment  he  fell  mortally 
wounded  by  a  ball  from  the  rifle  of  Murphy,  and  was 
carried  off  the  field  by  two  grenadiers. 

*  "  Loose  his  beard  and  troubled  hair 

Streamed  like  a  meteor  to  the  troubled  air." 

— GRAY. 

f  Judges  15:  15. 


20  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

While  ev'ry  rebel  fife  in  play 
To  yankey-doodle  tun'd  its  lay, 
And  like  the  music  of  the  spheres, 
Mellifluous  sooth'd  their  vanquished  ears.* 
11  Alas!"  said  I,  "what  baleful  star 
Sheds  fatal  influence  on  the  war, 
And  who  that  chosen  chief  of  fame, 
That  heads  this  grand  parade  of  shame  ?" 

There,  see  how  fate,  great  Malcolm  cried, 
Strikes  with  its  bolts  the  tow'rs  of  pride. 
Behold  that  martial  macaroni,f 

*  After  Burgoyne  had  surrendered,  the  prisoners 
started  under  guard  across  the  country  to  Cambridge, 
Mass.  They  began  their  march  to  the  tune  of  "  Yan 
kee  Doodle,"  which  they  had  so  often  heard  in  derision 
in  the  British  camp.  Indeed,  the  pride  of  Burgoyne 
was  dreadfully  humbled  by  the  whole  affair.  He  had 
but  a  short  time  previous  declared  that  he  would  eat 
his  Christmas  dinner  in  Albany  as  a  victor.  He  did, 
indeed,  dine  there  earlier  than  Christmas,  but  as  a  pris 
oner,  although  a  guest  at  the  table  of  his  magnanimous 
foe,  General  Schuyler,  whom  he  had  greatly  injured 
by  having  burned  his  house,  mills,  and  other  property 
at  Saratoga. 

f  This  allusion  to  Burgoyne's  foppery  is  a  very  happy 
one,  as  the  young  men  of  fashion,  who  composed  the 
Macaroni  Club,  had  very  recently  produced  a  great 
sensation  in  England.  They  were  young  men  who 
had  travelled  in  Italy,  and  had  returned,  bringing  with 
them  all  the  vices  and  follies  which  they  had  picked 
up  abroad.  Their  club  was  formed  in  London  in  1 772, 
and  it  was  particularly  distinguished  for  the  extrava 
gance  of  its  members  in  dress.  The  members  wore 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  21 

Compound  of  Phoebus  and  Bellona,* 
With  warlike  sword  and  singsong  lay, 
Equipp'd  alike  for  feast  or  fray, 
Where  equal  wit  and  valour  join  ; 
This,  this  is  he,  the  famed  Burgoyne ; 
Who  pawn'd  his  honor  and  commission 
To  coax  the  patriots  to  submission, 
By  songs  and  balls  secure  obedience, 
And  dance  the  ladies  to  allegiance,  f 

enormous  knots  of  hair  behind,  an  exceedingly  small 
cocked  hat,  an  enormous  walking-stick  with  long  tas 
sels,  jacket,  waistcoat  and  breeches,  cut  very  close. 
Soon  everything  that  was  fashionable  was  a  la  maca 
roni.  Macaroni  articles  everywhere  abounded,  and 
macaroni  songs  were  set  to  music.  One  song  closed 
with  this  stanza  : 

"  Five  pounds  of  hair  they  wear  behind, 

The  ladies  to  delight,  O ! 
Their  senses  give  unto  the  mind, 

To  make  themselves  a  fright,  O ! 
The  fashion  who  does  e'er  pursue, 

I  think  a  simple-toney  ; 
For  he's  a  fool,  say  what  you  will, 

Who  is  a  macaroni !" 

Indeed,  the  word  u  macaroni"  took  the  place  of  "beau" 
and  "  fribble,"  which  had  previously  been  given  to  men 
of  fashion,  in  the  same  way  that  "  dude,"  at  the  present 
day,  has  succeeded  the  word  "  dandy." 

*  Phoebus  was  another  name  for  Apollo,  or  the  sun. 
Bellona  was  the  accomplished  Goddess  of  War. 

f  When  setting  out  for  America,  Burgoyne  playfully 
remarked  that  he  meant  to  dance  the  Whig  ladies  to 
obedience,  when  their  husbands  would  soon  follow.  In 


22  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Oft  his  camp  muses  he'll  parade 
At  Boston  in  the  grand  blockade, 
And  well  invoked  with  punch  of  arrack, 
Hold  converse  sweet  in  tent  or  barrack, 
Inspired  in  more  heroic  fashion, 
Both  by  his  theme  and  situation  ; 
While  force  and  proclamation  grand, 
Rise  fair  beneath  his  plastic  hand.* 

this,  as  in  many  other  things,  he,  as  well  as  the  Brit 
ish  officers,  was  grievously  disappointed.  Howe  and 
Clinton  and  some  of  their  subordinates  expected 
to  crush  the  rebellion  in  a  week  almost ;  and  it  is  said 
that  they  actually  brought  fishing-tackle  with  them  to 
have  some  fine  sport  after  the  smoke  of  gunpowder 
had  cleared  away. 

*  Burgoyne's  proclamations,  like  those  of  Gage, 
were,  as  before  stated,  very  pompous,  and  caused 
the  wits  of  the  day  to  publish  in  a  burlesque  vein 
counter-proclamations,  as  the  ballads  in  this  volume 
show.  He  was  evidently  very  fond  of  making  them, 
for  he  always  delighted  in  the  use  of  his  pen.  While 
in  Boston,  for  instance,  during  the  siege,  he  wrote  a 
farce  called  "  Boston  Blockaded,"  in  which  the  person 
designed  to  represent  Washington  enters  with  un 
couth  gait,  wearing  a  large  wig,  a  long,  rusty  sword, 
and  attended  by  a  servant  armed  with  a  dilapidated 
and  rusty  gun.  Other  American  officers  in  this  same 
play  were  similarly  burlesqued.  While  this  farce  was 
in  course  of  performance  in  the  temporary  theatre  in 
Boston,  on  the  night  of  January  8th,  1776,  a  ser 
geant  suddenly  entered  and  exclaimed:  "The  Yan 
kees  are  attacking  our  works  on  Bunker  Hill!" 
The  audience  at  first  thought  this  was  a  part  of  the 
performance,  and  laughed  immoderately  at  the  idea, 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  23 

For  genius  swells  more  strong  and  clear 
When  close  confined,  like  bottled  beer; 
So  Prior's  wit  gained  greater  pow'r, 
By  inspiration  of  the  Tow'r  ;* 
And  Raleigh  fast  in  prison  hurl'd 
Wrote  all  the  history  of  the  world  ;f 
So  Wilkes  grew,  while  in  gaol  he  lay, 
More  patriotic  ev'ry  day, 
But  found  his  zeal,  when  not  confined, 
Soon  sink  below  the  freezing  point, 
And  public  spirit  once  so  fair, 
Evaporate  in  open  air.J 

but  they  were  soon  undeceived  by  the  burly  voice  of 
Howe  shouting:  " Officers,  to  your  alarm  posts !"  The 
people,  it  is  needless  to  say,  dispersed  in  the  greatest 
confusion.  The  fact  was,  that  majors  Knowlton, 
Carey  and  Henley,  three  gallant  American  officers,  had 
crossed  the  mill-dam  from  Cobble  Hill,  and  had  set 
fire  to  some  houses  in  Charlestown,  at  the  foot  of  Bun 
ker  Hill,  occupied  by  some  British  soldiers.  They 
burned  eight  houses,  killed  one  man  and  carried  off 
five  prisoners. 

*  Matthew  Prior  wrote  his  "  Alma,"  the  best  of  his 
works,  while  in  confinement  in  the  Tower  of  London. 

f  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  wrote  his  famous  "History  of 
the  World  "  while  confined  in  the  Tower  of  London  on 
a  charge  of  treason.  The  first  volume  appeared  in 
1614. 

J  John  Wilkes  was  a  fearless  political  writer  dur 
ing  the  early  years  of  the  reign  of  George  III.,  in 
whose  flesh  he  was  a  constant  thorn,  and  was  for  a 
long  time  editor  of  the  North  Britain.  In  the  forty- 
fifth  number  of  that  newspaper,  published  in  1763,  he 
uttered  sentiments  considered  libellous,  and  was  sent 


24:  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

But  thou,  great  favorite  of  Venus,* 
By  no  such  luck  shalt  cramp  thy  genius; 

to  the  Tower.  H  is  arrest  was  proved  to  be  illegal,  and  he 
was  released.  For  several  years  subsequent,  as  editor, 
as  alderman  in  London  and  as  a  member  of  the  House 
of  Commons,  he  was  considered  a  very  dangerous 
enemy  to  the  Crown.  Wilkes  was  a  licentious,  un 
principled  man;  and  because  he  wrote  an  indecent 
"  Essay  on  Woman  "  he  was  arraigned  before  the  King's 
Bench,  and,  upon  conviction,  was  expelled  from  Par 
liament.  He  afterward  obtained  a  verdict  against 
Wood,  the  under-secretary  of  State,  with  $5000  dam 
ages,  and  soon  went  to  Paris.  He  afterward  returned 
to  England,  and  was  again  elected  to  the  House  of 
Commons,  in  1768,  but  was  deprived  of  his  seat.  He 
became  Lord  Mayor  of  London  in  1 774,  when  he  took 
his  seat  in  the  House  of  Commons,  becoming  a 
stanch  friend  of  the  Americans  in  their  contest  with 
Great  Britain.  He  was  subsequently  Chamberlain  of 
London.  Wilkes  flourished  but  in  the  midst  of  agita 
tion.  When  out  of  the  troubled  sea  of  politics,  he 
sunk  into  obscurity,  and  died  in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  in 
1797,  at  the  age  of  seventy  years.  For  a  detailed 
account  of  the  political  career  of  Wilkes,  the  reader  is 
referred  to  "The  Journals  of  Horace  Walpole,  during 
the  Reign  of  George  III." 

*  In  allusion  to  the  well-known  licentious  propen 
sities  of  Burgoyne.  It  was  at  this  time  a  well-known 
fact — since  confirmed  by  the  letters  of  Mrs.  General  von 
Riedesel — that  during  the  retreat  of  his  army  after  the 
disastrous  defeat  of  October  7th,  he  thought  much  more 
of  enjoying  the  charms  of  his  mistress  than  of  how  to 
administer  to  the  comfort  of  his  forlorn  troops.  "  Bur 
goyne,  however,"  says  Mrs.  General  von  Riedesel,  in  her 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  25 

Thy  friendly  stars  till  wars  shall  cease, 

Shall  ward  th'  ill  fortune  of  release, 

And  hold  them  fast  in  bonds  not  feeble, 

In  good  condition  still  to  scribble. 

Such  merit  fate  shall  shield  from  firing, 

Bomb,  carcass,  langridge  and  cold  iron, 

Nor  trusts  thy  doubly  laurel'd  head 

To  rude  assaults  of  flying  lead. 

Hence  in  this  Saratogue  retreat, 

For  pure  good  fortune  thou'lt  be  beat ; 

Nor  taken  oft,  released  or  rescued, 

Pass  for  small  change,  like  simple  Prescott  ;* 

Journal,  "would  not,  though  urged  by  his  generals, 
think  of  a  farther  advance  that  night ;  and  while  his 
army  were  suffering  from  cold  and  hunger,  and  every 
one  was  looking  forward  to  the  immediate  future  with 
apprehension,  the  illuminated  mansion  of  General 
Schuyler  [of  which  he  had  taken  possession]  rang  with 
singing,  laughter  and  the  jingling  of  glasses.  There 
Burgoyne  was  sitting  with  some  merry  companions, 
at  a  dainty  supper,  while  the  champagne  was  flowing. 
Near  him  sat  the  beautiful  wife  of  an  English  com 
missary,  his  mistress.  Great  as  the  calamity  was,  the 
frivolous  general  still  kept  up  his  orgies.  Indeed, 
some  were  of  the  opinion  that  he  had  merely  made 
that  inexcusable  stand  for  the  sake  of  passing  a  merry 
night."  See  Stone's  "  Burgoyne's  Campaign,"  pp.  87, 88. 
*  General  Prescott  was  twice  taken  prisoner  during 
the  Revolution.  The  first  time  he  was  captured  at 
Montreal  by  Montgomery,  near  the  close  of  1775  ;  and 
the  second  time  he  was  seized  in  his  rooms,  while  in 
command  of  the  British  forces  in  Rhode  Island,  in 
July,  1777.  He  was  taken  to  the  headquarters  of 
the  American  army,  and  afterward  exchanged  for 


26  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

But  captured  then,  as  fates  befall, 
Shalt  stand  thy  hand  for't,  once  for  all. 
Then  raise  thy  daring  thoughts  sublime, 
And  dip  thy  conq'ring  pen  in  rhyme, 
And  changing  war  for  puns  and  jokes, 
Write  new  blockades  and  maids  of  oaks.* 

that  traitor,  General  Charles  Lee,  who  had  been  cap 
tured  in  New  Jersey  in  the  December  previous.  The 
circumstances  of  his  last  capture  were  these :  Colonel 
William  Barton,  with  a  few  men  in  whale-boats, 
crossed  Narragansett  Bay  in  the  night,  for  the  purpose 
of  seizing  Prescott,  who  was  a  most  despicable,  petty 
tyrant  of,  as  Lossing  well  says,  "  the  meanest  stamp." 
He  was,  like  Lee — for  whom,  as  has  been  said,  he  was 
afterward  exchanged — taken  from  his  bed,  conveyed 
across  to  Warwick,  and  thence  to  Providence,  and 
afterward  to  headquarters.  A  full  account  of  the 
affair,  with  a  portrait  of  Barton  and  a  picture  of  the 
house  from  which  Prescott  was  taken,  may  be  found 
in  Lossing's  "  Pictorial  Field-Book  of  the  Revolution." 

*  This  is  another  allusion  to  Burgoyne's  farce  of  "  The 
Siege  of  Boston."  "  The  Maid  of  the  Oaks"  was  another 
farce  from  his  fertile  and  versatile  pen — for  that  he  had 
extraordinary  literary  ability  no  one  can  doubt — a  play 
which  was  much  thought  of,  and  was  often  performed 
in  the  English  theatres.  He  also  wrote  a  comedy,  as 
mentioned  in  the  introduction  to  the  "  Burgoyne 
Ballads"  (see  ante),  entitled  "  The  Heiress,"  which  had 
a  great  reputation. 

For  many  of  the  above  notes  I  am  indebted  to  my 
old  friend,  the  late  Mr.  Benson  J.  Lossing,  who  first 
published  them  in  an  annotated  edition  of  "  McFingal." 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  27 


THE   PROGRESS   OF    SIR  JACK    BRAG.* 

SAID  Burgoyne  to  his  men,  as  they  pass'd  in  review, 

Tullalo,  tullalo,  tullalo,  boys  ! 
These  rebels  their  course  very  quickly  will  rue, 
And  fly  as  the  leaves  'fore  the  autumn  tempest  flew, 

When  him  who  is  your  leader  they  know,  boys! 

They  with  men  have  now  to  deal, 

And  we  soon  will  make  them  feel, 
Tullalo,  tullalo,  tullalo,  boys! 
That  a  loyal  Briton's  arm  and  a  loyal  Briton's  steel 

Can  put  to  flight  a  rebel  as  quick  as  other  foe, 
boys! 

Tullalo,  tullalo,  tullalo— 

Tullalo,  tullalo,  tullalo-o-o-o,  boys ! 


*"  Burgoyne,  more  frequently  than  any  other  British 
officer,  was  the  butt  of  the  Continental  wits.  His 
verses  were  parodied,  his  amours  celebrated  in  the 
songs  of  the  mess-table,  and  his  boasts  and  the  weaker 
points  in  his  nature  caricatured  in  ballads  and  petite 
comedies.  We  obtained  a  manuscript  copy  of  the 
song  from  which  the  above  verses  are  quoted  from  an 
octogenarian  Vermonter,  who,  with  feeble  frame,  shrill 
voice  and  silvered  locks  of  eighty-seven,  would  give  the 
echoing  chorus  with  as  much  enthusiasm  as  when  he 
joined  in  it  with  his  camp  companions  more  than  half 
a  century  ago.  The  only  clue  to  its  authorship  with 
which  we  are  acquainted  is  the  signature,  '  G.  of  H.' 
It  was  probably  written  soon  after  its  hero's  defeat  at 
Saratoga." — Rufus  W.  Grisivold,  in  the  American 
Supplement  to  Disraelis  "  Curiosities  of  Literature'' 


28  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

As  to   Sa-ra-tog'*  he  came,  thinking  how  to  jo  the 

game, 

Tullalo,  tullalo,  tullalo,  boys! 

He  began  to  fear  the  grubs,  in  the  branches  of  his  fame, 
He  began  to  have  the  trembles  lest  a  flash  should  be 

the  flame, 
For  which  he  had  agreed  his  perfume  to  forego, 

boys! 

No  lack  of  skill,  but  fates, 
Shall  make  us  yield  to  Gates, 
Tullalo,  tullalo,  tullalo,  boys ! 
The  devil  may  have  leagued,  as  you  know,  with  the 

States ! 

But  we  never  will  be  beat  by  any  mortal  foe,  boys ! 
Tullalo,  tullalo,  tullalo— 
Tullalo,  tullalo,  tullalo-o-o-o,  boys ! 

*  The  present  word  u  Saratoga,"  the  world's  famous 
watering-place,  has  had  many  different  spellings.  Dr. 
Steel  says,  in  his  work,  that  it  is  a  corruption  of  the 
Indian  word  Sah-rah-ka,  meaning  "  the  side  hill,"  and 
"was  applied  by  the  natives  more  particularly  to  that 
part  of  the  country  which  lies  between  Saratoga  Lake 
and  the  Hudson,  where  the  application  of  the  term  is 
amply  justified  by  the  appearance  of  the  country." 
This  explanation,  however  plausible,  I  believe  is  not 
correct.  Saratoga  is  an  Indian  word  of  the  Iroquois 
language,  derived  from  "  Saragh-aga"  or  "oga,"  and,  ac 
cording  to  Sir  William  Johnson,  means  u  the  place  of 
the  herrings,"  from  the  fact  that,  in  early  colonial  times, 
before  the  mills  were  built  at  Troy.  Schuylersville,  etc., 
herrings  used  to  run  up  in  large  shoals  into  Saratoga 
Lake  by  way  of  Fish  Creek  and  the  Hudson.  The 
inflections  "  oga"  and  "aga"  are  local  phrases,  and  sig 
nify  "  place"  or  "  inhabitants  of."  In  the  same  sense 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  29 

BURGOYNE'S  DEFEAT. 

(From  an  old  pamphlet.) 

YE  powers  above,  look  down  and  pity  our  case, 
For  the  once  great  Burgoyne  is  now  in  distress; 
For  I  am  surrounded  with  a  numerous  foe, 
Which  I  fear  my  whole  army  will  soon  overthrow. 

O  curs'd  be  the  men  that  did  us  deceive,* 

And  curs'd  be  old  Schuyler,  that  made  us  believe 

the  inflection  "  aga"  is  used  in  the  words  On-ond-aga, 
Sac-and-aga,  Ti-con-der-aga,  Ca-nand-aga,  etc.  See 
Stone's  ''Life  of  Sir  William  Johnson ;"  also  Henry 
Schoolcraft's  letter  to  the  author. 

*  Alluding  to  Philip  Skene  (after  whom  Skenesbor- 
ough,novv  Whitehall,  N.Y.,  was  named),  who  continual 
ly  advised  Burgoyne  to  pursue  Schuyler  and  to  under 
take  the  expedition  against  Bennington,  telling  him 
most  positively  that  all  he  (Burgoyne)  had  to  do  was 
to  leave  some  plunder  in  his  track,  when  all  the  Am 
ericans  would  be  so  engaged  in  gathering  it  up,  that 
he  could  easily  overcome  them.  Skene,  also,  was 
responsible  for  the  fatal  mistake  Burgoyne  made  of 
taking  the  route  from  Whitehall  to  Fort  Edward  by 
way  of  Wood  Creek,  instead  of  at  once  proceeding  by 
way  of  Lake  George  by  water-carriage — a  course  which 
gave  Schuyler  ample  opportunity  of  obstructing  his 
path  by  felling  trees,  etc.,  thus  giving  time  foivthe 
yeomanry  to  rally  and  for  Washington  to  send  Mor 
gan  to  the  help  of  Gates.  This  advice  was  given 
to  Burgoyne  by  Skene  solely  to  enable  him,  at  the 
army's  expense,  to  have  a  good  road  cut  for  him  from 
Skenesborough  (Whitehall,  N.  Y.)  to  the  lower  set- 


30  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

That  he  would  retreat  before  us  and  make  no  alarm 
'Till  we'd  landed  in  Albany  free  from  all  harm. 

O,  I  am  surrounded  with  sorrow  and  grief, 
Ye  Goddess  Diana,  O  !  send  some  relief, 
Or  send  me  some  comfort  my  mind  for  to  feed, 
Or  send  me  a  cordial,  for  I  ne'er  had  more  need. 

And  now  fellow-soldiers,  what  to  advise  to  do, 
Go  forward  we  cannot — nor  back  we  can't  go, 
And  if  we  stay  here  we  surely  must  die  ; 
My  heart  is  overwhelmed,  O  !  where  shall  I  fly  ? 

What  say  you,  my  lads,  must  we  yield  unto  men 
That  we've  so  long  held  in  so  great  disdain, 
And  called  them  rebels  and  despised  Yankees  too. 
And  looked  upon  them  as  a  cowardly  crew  ? 

O,  safety  says  yes,  but  honor  says  no— 
Our  case  is  deplorable,  what  shall  we  do  ? 
Our  honor  is  sweet,  but  our  lives  are  more  dear, 
My  eyes  do  break  forth  in  a  fountain  of  tears. 

O  curs'd  be  the  day  that  I  e'er  came  here, 
And  crossed  the  Atlantic  to  buy  wit  so  dear; 
And  curs'd  be  the  villains  that  did  so  much  hurt 
By  carrying  to  England  so  false  a  report. 

For  it  is  commonly  reported  in  fair  England 

That  the  sight  of  one  Briton  will  make  ten  Yankees 

run — 

The  report  of  a  cannon  will  make  Yankees  fly,* 
E'en  were  they  as  numerous  as  stars  in  the  sky. 

tlements.    See  Ramsey's  u  American  Revolution,"  than 
which  there  is  no  better  authority. 

*  Burgoyne  is  said  to  have  stated  to  his  king  that 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  31 

But  alas !  by  experience  I  find  it  is  false ; 
For  of  the  two,  Yankees  are  better  than  us  ; 
They  will  fight  with  great  valor  in  the  open  field — 
Take  them  in  the  forest,  then  Britons  must  yield. 

They'll  shut  up  one  eye  and  squint  on  their  gun, 
We're  certainly  dead  boys  as  soon  as  that's  done  ; 
We  can  stand  no  more  chance  among  Yankee  boys 
Than  to  throw  an  old  cat  into  Bedlam  without  claws. 

Then  what  shall  we  do  ?     Diana  don't  hear, 
To  our  supplications  she  turns  a  deaf  ear ; 
We'll  complain  to  our  gods  of  our  sorrow  and  woe, 
Our  good  old  friend  Jupiter  will  hear  us,  I  know. 

We'll  complain  to  Mars,  and  Saturn  also, 
And  likewise  mild  Venus  shall  hear  of  our  woe  ; 
And  if  they'll  not  regard  us,  will  make  our  complaint 
To  the  lady  Mary  and  the  good  old  saint. 

You  gentlemen  all  think  on't  as  you  will, 

The  Britons  have  used  the  Americans  ill ; 

And  for  that  same  reason  we  are  brought  into  stall 

We  never  shall  prosper  in  this  war  at  all. 

For  our  gods   will  not  hear  us,  though  we  cry  and 

weep, 

They  have  gone  a  long  journey  or  fallen  asleep ; 
They  are  regardless  of  our  requests, 
As  the  British  Court  is  of  the  American  Congress. 

Thus  I  think  it  in  vain  on  our  gods  for  to  call, 
For  they  are  not  able  to  help  us  at  all ; 
We'll  go  to  brave  Gates — that's  complete, 
He'll  give  us  an  answer  in  hopes  that  is  sweet. 

"with    one   regiment    he  could   march    triumphantly 
through  all  the  American  colonies." 


32  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

He'll  grant  us  the  privilege  for  to  march  out 
In  the  honor  of  war  though  in  the  worst  route ; 
And  if  he'll  do  so  we'll  bless  his  name, 
And  let  him  be  crowned  with  honor  and  fame. 

We  are  all  'greed  to  do  as  you  have  said, 
We'll  go  very  humble  with  hopes  on  our  head, 
Acknowledge  before  him  we  all  deserve  death, 
If  he  saves  us  we'll  praise  him  whilst  we  have  breath. 

We  sent  to  his  honor,  our  request  he  did  grant ; 
His  bountiful  hands  did  supply  all  our  wants ; 
He  opened  his  stores,  our  wants  did  supply, 
Let  brave  Gates'  enemy  before  him  all  fly. 

Ye  Heavens,  send  down  your  blessings  amain 
On  the  head  of  brave  Gates,  let  his  foes  be  slain, 
Or  otherwise  bow  to  that  brave  general, 
Let  Britons  and  foreigners  before  him  all  fall. 

For  his  honour  is  great  and  his  valour  unknown, 
He  scorns  in  his  heart  the  thoughts  of  a  clown  ; 
He's  gallant  and  brave  and  generous  too, 
Right  worthy  gen'ral,  I  bid  you  adieu. 


THE  FATE  OF  JOHN    BURGOYNE. 

WHEN  Jack,  the  king's  commander, 

Was  going  to  his  duty, 
Through  all  the  crowd  he  smiled  and  bow'd 

To  every  blooming  beauty. 

The  city  rung  with  feats  he'd  done 

In  Portugal  and  Flanders, 
And  all  the  town  thought  he'd  be  crown'd 

The  first  of  Alexanders.* 

*  See  sketch  of  General  Burgoyne,  ante. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  33 

To  Hampton  Court  he  first  repairs 
To  kiss  great  George's  hand,  sirs  ; 

Then  to  harangue  on  state  affairs 
Before  he  left  the  land,  sirs. 

The  Lower  House  sat  mute  as  mouse 

To  hear  his  grand  oration  ; 
And  all  the  peers,  with  loudest  cheers, 

Proclaimed  him  to  the  nation. 

Then  off  he  went  to  Canada, 

Next  to  Ticonderoga, 
And  quitting  those  away  he  goes 

Straightway  to  Saratoga. 

With  great  parade  his  march  he  made 

To  gain  his  wished  for  station, 
While  far  and  wide  his  minions  hied 

To  spread  his  Proclamation. 

To  such  as  staid  he  offers  made 

Of  ^pardon  on  submission  ; 
But  savage  bands  should  waste  the  lands 

Of  all  in  opposition." 

But  ah,  the  cruel  fates  of  war  ! 

This  boasted  son  of  Britain, 
When  mounting  his  triumphal  car 

With  sudden  fear  was  smitten. 

The  sons  of  Freedom  gathered  round, 

His  hostile  bands  confounded, 
And  when  they'd  fain  have  turned  their  back 

They  found  themselves  surrounded  ! 

In  vain  they  fought,  in  vain  they  fled, 

Their  chief,  humane  and  tender, 
To  save  the  rest  soon  thought  it  best 

His  forces  to  surrender. 


34  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Brave  St.  Clair,*  when  he  first  retired 
Knew  what  the  fates  portended  ; 

*  The  troops  with  which  General  St.  Clair  had  gar 
risoned  Ticonderoga,  in  view  of  a  possible  attack  by 
Burgoyne,  were  ill  equipped,  badly  armed,  and  amount 
ed,  including  nine  hundred  militia,  to  about  three 
thousand  men.  As  General  Philips,  with  the  right 
wing  of  Burgoyne's  army,  approached  Ticonderoga,  the 
Americans  abandoned  their  outworks,  and  the  British, 
without  hindrance,  immediately  took  possession  of  and 
fortified  Mount  Defiance,  a  mountain  completely  over 
looking  Ticonderoga,  and  the  possibility  of  which 
event  had  been  suggested  by  Governor  Trumbull,  but 
which  hint,  on  account  of  lack  of  men,  was  not  acted 
upon.  Under  these  circumstances  St.  Clair  had  no 
alternative  but  to  evacuate  the  fort  during  the  night 
and  retreat  into  Vermont,  sending  his  stores  and  sick 
on  bateaux  up  Lake  Champlain  to  Skenesborough. 

No  event  during  the  Revolutionary  War,  as  it  has 
been  justly  said,  produced  such  consternation  through 
out  the  colonies  as  the  evacuation  of  Ticonderoga 
— a  fortress  which,  even  by  Washington  himself,  had 
been  regarded  as  a  tower  of  strength,  and  one,  too, 
before  which,  as  a  matter  of  course,  Burgoyne  would 
be  stopped  on  his  march  southward  to  Albany.  In 
deed,  nothing  could  have  been  more  unexpected 
than  this  event.  "  It  was,"  says  Dr.  Dwight,  who  lived 
as  a  contemporary  with  the  actors  in  these  scenes, 
<4  the  bursting  of  a  meteor,  which,  by  its  awful  peal, 
shook  every  habitation  from  Maine  to  Georgia."  That 
there  was  a  fault  somewhere  admits  of  no  doubt. 
But  whatever  was  the  cause — whether  the  officers 
and  their  subordinates  overrated  the  strength  of  the 
enemy,  or  what — the  excessive  disappointment  of  the 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  35 

And  Arnold  and  heroic  Gates* 
His  conduct  have  defended. 

Thus  may  America's  brave  sons 

With  honor  be  rewarded, 
And  the  fate  of  all  her  foes 

The  same  as  here  recorded. 


people  was  most  terrible,  and  greatly  increased  the 
astonishment  and  dismay.  General  St.  Clair  was  after 
ward  tried  by  a  court-martial  for  the  loss  of  this  fort, 
but  was  acquitted  of  all  blame.  The  consequence, 
however,  of  this  terrible  misfortune  has  received  no 
mitigation  by  his  acquittal. 

This  much,  however,  must  be  said — viz.,  that  though 
St.  Clair  failed  in  being  a  great  genius,  he  was  a  noble 
man  in  his  feelings  and  sympathies,  and  was  not  un 
successful,  as  Headley  has  justly  said,  "  from  want  of 
patriotism  or  willingness  to  sacrifice  himself."  Wash 
ington  knew  this,  and  hence  never  withdrew  his  confi 
dence.  He  had  him  by  his  side  at  Brandy  wine,  though 
holding  no  commission,  and  as  soon  as  the  court-martial 
pronounced  his  acquittal,  again  intrusted  him  with  the 
highest  responsibilities.  This  is  saying  a  great  deal  in 
his  praise  ;  and  finally,  in  1788,  when  the  Northwestern 
Territory  was  erected  into  a  government,  St.  Clair, 
doubtless  with  the  concurrence  of  Washington,  was 
appointed  governor  of  that  territory,  which  office  he 
held  until  1802. 

*  For  a  short  sketch  of  General  Gates,  see  Appendix 
No.  II. 


36  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 


THE  CAPTURE  AT  SARATOGA* 

HERE  followeth  the  direful  fate 

Of  Burgoyne  and  his  army  great, 

Who  so  proudly  did  display 

The  terrors  of  despotic  sway. 

His  power  and  pride  and  many  threats 

Have  been  brought  low  by  fort'nate  Gates, 

To  bend  to  the  United  States. 

British  prisoners  by  convention,  2442 

Foreigners  by  contravention,  -     2 1 98 

Tories  sent  across  the  lake,  1 100 

Burgoyne  and  his  suite  in  state,  -         -         12 

Sick  and  wounded,  bruised  and  pounded,   \  ~ 

Ne'er  so  much  before  confounded,  j 

Prisoners  of  war  before  convention,      -  400 

Deserters  come  with  kind  intention,  -      300 

They  lost  at  Bennington's  great  battle,    ) 

Where  Stark's  glorious  arms  did  rattle,    j 

Killed  in  September  and  October,  -      600 

Ta'en  by  brave  Brown,f  some  drunk,  some  sober,    413 

Slain  by  high-famed  Herkerman,^   ) 

On  both  flanks,  on  rear  and  van,      j 

Indians,  settlers,  butchers,  drovers, 

Enough  to  crowd  large  plains  all  over 

And  those  whom  grim  Death  did  prevent 

From  fighting  against  our  continent ; 

And  also  those  who  stole  away, 

Lest  they  down  their  arms  should  lay,          J 

*  From  a  contemporary  magazine,  though  copied 
extensively  in  the  newspapers  of  the  day. 

f  Colonel  John  Brown,  of  Massachusetts.    See  note 
under  "  The  North  Campaign." 

General  Herkimer,  of  New  York. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  37 

Abhorring  that  obnoxious  day; 

The  whole  make  fourteen  thousand  men,    ) 

Who  may  not  with  us  fight  again,  j          14000 

This  is  a  pretty  just  account 

Of  Burgoyne's  legions'  whole  amount, 

Who  came  across  the  northern  lakes 

To  desolate  our  happy  States. 

Their  brass  cannon  we  have  got  all, 

Fifty-six — both  great  and  small : 

And  ten  thousand  stand  of  arms, 

To  prevent  all  future  harms  : 

Stores  and  implements  complete, 

Of  workmanship  exceeding  neat ; 

Covered  wagons  in  great  plenty, 

And  proper  harness,  no  ways  scanty. 

Among  our  prisoners  there  are 

Six  generals  of  fame  most  rare  ; 

Six  members  of  their  parliament 

Reluctantly  they  seem  content : 

Three  British  lords,  and  Lord  Balcarras* 

Who  came  our  country  free  to  harass. 

*  Balcarras,  Alexander  Lindsay,  earl  of,  British 
soldier,  born  in  1752;  died  in  London,  March  27th, 
1825.  He  was  the  eldest  son  of  the  fifth  earl  of  Bal 
carras,  whom  he  succeeded  in  1767.  He  became  an 
ensign  in  the  Fifty-third  foot,  and  was  made  major 
December  gth,  1775.  In  this  country  he  saw  three 
years  of  service  under  Carleton  and  Burgoyne.  He 
was  present  at  the  defeat  of  the  Americans,  under  Gen 
eral  Thompson,  at  Three  Rivers,  June  ist,  1776,  and 
commanded  the  light  infantry  at  Ticonderoga  and  at 
Hubbardton,  Vt,  July  7th,  1777.  In  the  latter  action 
he  was  wounded — thirteen  balls  passing  through  his 
clothes.  In  the  battle  of  September  iQth  he  com- 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Two  baronets  of  high  extraction 
Were  sorely  wounded  in  the  action. 


BURGOYNE'S  ADVANCE  AND  FALL. 

(An  extract   from  America  Independent.} 


BY  PHILIP  FRENEAU.* 


LED  on  by  lust  of  lucre  and  renown, 

Burgoyne  came  marching  with  his  thousands  down  ; 

manded  the  advanced  corps  of  the  army  at  Free 
man's  Farm;  and  in  the  action  of  October  7th,  1777, 
on  the  death  of  General  Fraser,  October  8th,  1777,  he 
was  made  lieutenant-colonel  of  the  Twenty-fourth 
foot.  He  became  major-general  in  1793,  commander 
in  Jamaica  ;  lieutenant-governor  of  that  island  in  1 794  ; 
lieutenant-general  in  1798,  and  general  in  1803.  His 
bravery  and  prominence  in  both  of  the  battles  of  Sar 
atoga  have  always  received  particular  mention. 

*  Philip  Freneau,  poet,  born  in  New  York  City, 
January  2d,  1 752  ;  died  near  Freehold,  N.  J.,  December 
1 8th,  1 832.  Some  of  his  published  poems  were  written 
before  he  left  college  (Princeton).  On  a  voyage  to 
the  West  Indies,  in  1780,  he  was  captured  by  an 
English  cruiser,  and  his  experiences  as  a  prisoner  are 
recorded  in  bitter  terms  in  his  "  British  Prison-Ship." 
On  regaining  his  liberty,  the  following  year,  he  wrote 
frequently,  both  in  prose  and  verse,  for  the  Freeman  s 
Journal.  After  the  close  of  the  war  he  became 
editor  of  the  New  York  Daily  Advertiser.  The 
violence  of  this  paper's  attacks  on  the  Federalists 
aroused  Hamilton's  anger,  who  accused  him  of  being 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  39 

High  were  his  thoughts,  and  furious  his  career, 
Puft'd  with  self-confidence,  and  pride  severe, 
Swoln  with  the  idea  of  his  future  deeds, 
On  to  ruin  each  advantage  leads. 
Before  his  hosts  his  heaviest  curses  flew, 
And  conquer'd  worlds  rose  hourly  to  his  view  : 
His  wrath,  like  Jove's,  could  bear  with  no  control, 
His  words  bespoke  the  mischief  in  his  soul ; 
To  fight  was  not  this  miscreant's  only  trade, 
He  shin'd  in  writing,  and  his  wit  display'd. 
To  awe  the  more  with  titles  of  command 
He  told  of  forts  he  rul'dm  Scottish  land; 
Queen's  colonels  he  was  he  did  not  know 
That  thorns  and  thistles,  mix'd  with  honors,  grow ; 
In  Britain's  senate  though  he  held  a  place, 
All  did  not  save  him  from  one  long  disgrace. 
One  stroke  of  fortune  that  convinc'd  them  all 
That  we  could  conquer,  and  lieutenants  fall. 
Foe  to  the  rights  of  man,  proud  plunderer,  say 
Had  conquest  crown'd  thee  on  that  mighty  day 
When  you  to  GATES,  with  sorrow,  rage  and  shame 
Resign'd  your  conquests,  honors,  arms,  and  fame, 
When  at  his  feet  Britannia's  wreaths  you  threw, 
And  the  sun  sicken'd  at  a  sight  so  new  ; 
Had  you  been  victor — what  a  waste  of  woe  ! 
What  souls  had  vanish'd  to  where  souls  do  go  ! 

the  "  tool  of  Jefferson,"  which  forced  the  latter  to  write 
an  explanatory  letter  to  Washington.  He  afterward 
was  connected  with  several  newspapers.  He  is  the 
author  of  many  works,  both  of  prose  and  verse.  A 
volume  of  his  poems,  published  in  Philadelphia  in 
1786,  abounds  in  patriotic  sentiments  and  allusions 
to  the  various  events  of  the  war.  Indeed,  he  has  been 
not  unaptly  styled  "  the  poet  of  the  Revolution." 


40  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

What  dire  distress  had  mark'd  your  fatal  way, 

What  deaths  on  deaths  disgrace  that  dismal  day ! 

Can  laurels  flourish  in  a  soil  of  blood, 

Or  on  those  laurels  can  fair  honors  bud  ? 

Curs'd  be  that  wretch  who  murder  makes  his  trade, 

Curs'd  be  all  arms  that  e'er  ambition  made ! 

What  murdering  tory  now  relieves  your  grief 

Or  plans  new  conquests  for  his  favorite  chief; 

Designs  still  dark  employ  that  ruffian  race, 

Beasts  of  your  choosing,  and  our  own  disgrace. 

So  vile  a  crew  the  world  ne'er  saw  before, 

And  grant,  ye  pitying  heavens,  it  may  no  more. 

If  ghosts  from  hell  infest  our  poison'd  air, 

Those  ghosts  have  enter'd  these  base  bodies  here, 

Murder  and  blood  is  still  their  dear  delight — 

Scream  round  their  roots,  ye  ravens  of  the  night ! 

Whene'er  they  wed,  may  demons,  and  despair, 

And  grief,  and  woe,  and  blackest  night  be  there  ; 

Fiends  leagu'd  from  hell,  the  nuptial  lamp  display, 

Swift  to  perdition  light  them  on  their  way. 

Round  the  wide  world  their  devilish  squadrons  cliase, 

To  find  no  realm  that  grants  one  resting  place. 

Far  to  the  north,  on  Scotland's  utmost  end, 

An  isle  there  lies,  the  haunt  of  every  fiend, 

There  screeching  owls,  and  screaming  vultures  rest, 

And  not  a  tree  adorns  its  barren  breast ! 

No  shepherds  there  attend  their  bleating  flocks, 

But  wither'd  witches  rove  among  the  rocks : 

Shrouded  in  ice,  the  blasted  mountains  show 

Their  cloven  heads,  to  fright  the  seas  below  ; 

The  lamp  of  heaven  in  his  diurnal  race 

Here  scarcely  deigns  to  unveil  his  radiant  face  ; 

Or  if  one  day  he  circling  treads  the  sky 

He  views  this  island  with  an  angry  eye; 

Or  ambient  fogs  their  broad,  moist  wings  expand, 

Damp  his  bright  ray,  and  cloud  the  infernal  land  ; 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  41 

The  blackening  wind  incessant  storms  prolong, 
Dull  as  their  night,  and  dreary  as  my  song ; 
When  stormy  winds  with  rain  refuse  to  blow, 
Then  from  the  dark  sky  drives  the  unpitying  snow  ; 
When  drifting  snow  from  iron  clouds  forbear, 
Then  down  the  hailstones  rattle  through  the  air. 
No  peace,  no  rest,  the  elements  bestow, 
But  seas  forever  rage,  and  storms  forever  blow. 
Here,  miscreants,  here  with  loyal  hearts  retire, 
Here  pitch  your  tents,  and  kindle  here  your  fire  ; 
Here  desert  Nature  will  her  stings  display, 
And  fiercest  hunger  on  your  vitals  prey. 
And  with  themselves  let  John  Burgoyne  retire 
To  reign  the  monarch,  whom  your  hearts  admire. 


ST.  GLAIR'S  RETREAT,  AND  BURGOYNE'S 

DEFEAT. 

BY  REV.  WHEELER  CASE.* 

ST.  CLAIR  is  stationed  in  our  Northern  fort, 

T'  oppose  Burgoyne^  sent  from  the  British  coast. 

*  Rev.  Wheeler  Case  was  born  at  Southold,  Long 
Island,  in  1732.  He  died  in  1788,  at  Pleasant  Valley, 
Dutchess  County,  N.  Y.,  where  his  tombstone  is  yet 
(i  893)  still  to  be  seen.  The  poems  were  first  published 
anonymously  in  1778,  and  have  since  been  reproduced 
by  Dodd  in  1852.  Rev.  Mr.  Case  was  the  pastor  for 
many  years  of  the  Presbyterian  Church  of  Pleasant 
Valley,  N.  Y.  In  his  preface  to  his  pamphlet  he  states 
that  the  poems  were  first  composed  for  his  own  amuse 
ment,  without  any  idea  of  printing  them ;  but  after 
ward,  thinking  they  might  contribute  a  little  toward 


4-2  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

The  fortress  all  complete  in  every  part, 

Well  fortified  by  nature  and  by  art ; 

How  firm  the  walls!  the  lines  completely  mann'd, 

Huge  cannon  planted  round,  all  parts  well  scann'd. 

The  gen'ral  now  his  soldiers  all  address'd, 

And  like  a  hero  thus  himself  expressed: 

"Let  martial  courage  in  your  bosoms  glow, 

Nor  fear  to  face  a  proud  invading  foe; 

You  know  our  cause  is  just;  we  need  not  fear, 

The  God  of  armies  will  for  us  appear. 

Fair  Liberty  commands;  here  make  the  stand, 

Here  we  will  die,  or  save  our  injur'd  land. 

You  all  detest  the  shameful  name  of  slave  ; 

Then  play  the  man,  and  rank  among  the  brave. 

My  orders  you  will  all  as  one  obey, 

Our  foes,  all  panic-struck,  will  sneak  away. 

Then  we— 

But  who — what  troops  are  these  just  here  in  sight, 

All  clad  in  arms  complete,  prepar'd  to  fight? 


promoting  the  noble  cause  of  liberty,  he  consented  to 
their  publication.  "  If  the  friends  of  liberty,"  he  adds 
in  his  preface,  "  should  be  of  the  same  mind  with  him, 
he  hopes  they  will  be  good  enough  to  excuse  practical 
errors,  as  he  had  never  made  the  art  of  poetry  his 
study.  As  for  others,  he  is  not  concerned  about  them, 
being  persuaded  the  time  is  drawing  nigh  when  they 
will  be  fully  convinced  that  liberty  is  better  than 
slavery,  and  independence  is  much  better  than  being 
dependent  upon  a  prince  who  chooses  that  they  should 
live  no  longer  than  during  his  pleasure,  or  submit  to 
abject  slavery."  I  am  indebted  for  the  above  facts  to 
his  great-grandson,  Walter  C.  Anthony,  of  New- 
burgh,  N.  Y. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  43 

They  are  Great  Britain's  troops — a  rising  storm — 
They  all  appear  of  a  gigantic  form  ! 
These  sons  of  Anak  spread  all  o'er  the  land, 
Before  this  mighty  host  we  cannot  stand. 
Should  we  foolhardy  with  them  now  engage, 
We  fall  at  once  sure  victims  to  their  rage  ; 
With  sword  unsheath'd  they're  all  advancing  nigh. 
Let  ev'ry  man  prepare  himself  to  fly. 
I  now  command  you  all  with  speed  to  run, 
Leave  all  your  baggage,  and  not  fire  a  gun." 
The  soldiers  with  reluctance  now  obey, 
They  all  retreat,  and  St.  Clair  leads  the  way. 
Whether  with  panic  struck  he  took  the  flight, 
Or  to  ensnare  Burgoyne  in  dismal  plight, 
The  muse  must  leave  till  she  has  further  light. 
Perhaps  by  impulse  he  foreknew  the  fates, 
And  fled  to  save  the  whole  United  States. 
Whether  fear  or  impulse  govern'd  in  his  breast, 
Kind  Providence  o'erruled  it  for  the  best.* 
Burgoyne,  elated,  now  pursues  the  chase, 
And  threatens  vengeance  to  the  rebel  race  ; 

":f  Here  the  author,  writing  at  the  time  that  the 
evacuation  of  Ticonderoga  was  fresh  in  the  public 
mind,  and  with  every  patriot  smarting  under  what  was 
then  considered  a  needless  surrender  of  that  fort,  does 
St.  Clair  great  injustice.  St.  Clair  could  not  have 
done  otherwise,  and  if  Colonel  Trumbull's  advice  had 
been  followed  in  regard  to  fortifying  Sugar-Loaf  Hill 
(see  Stone's  "  Burgoyne's  Campaign"),  the  fort  need 
not  have  been  given  up.  St.  Clair,  however,  did  as  a  true 
patriot  what  was  the  best,  and  thus  saved  his  army,which 
eventually  captured  all  of  Burgoyne's  army.  The  sub 
sequent  court-martial  of  St.  Clair,  undertaken  at  the 
demand  of  public  opinion,  fully  vindicated  his  conduct. 


4A  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

He  boasts  aloud,  his  threat'nings  round  he  hurl'd, 
As  tho'  assur'd  of  conquering  all  the  world. 
With  hellish  pride  he  triumphs  o'er  the  north, 
Enumerates  his  titles  and  his  worth, 
And  sends  his  thund'ring  proclamation  forth.* 
Persuasive  arguments  at  first  he  us'd, 
Then  blood  and  slaughter,  if  they  him  refus'd. 
He  dipp'd  his  pen  in  oil  to  soothe  and  please, 
Then  his  address  began  in  words  like  these  : 
"  Why  will  you  thus  desert  my  master's  cause, 
And  trample  underfoot  his  righteous  laws  ? 
Cease  to  rebel,  repent,  return  and  live, 
I've  sealed  pardons  in  my  hand  to  give. 
Remain  upon  your  farms,  there  safely  stay, 
With  all  your  horses,  cattle,  and  your  hay  ; 
Nor  hide  your  oats,  your  barley,  or  your  wheat, 
Then  you  from  me  shall  safe  protection  meet ; 
You  need  not  fear,  no  one  shall  you  annoy, 
Come  and  submit,  I'll  find  you  full  employ  ; 
I'll  bore  your  ear  unto  my  master's  door, 
'Tis  all  he  has  in  view,  he  wants  no  more. 
Submit  your  necks  to  his  most  easy  yoke, 
So  that  you  may  avert  the  dreadful  stroke. 
As  mediator,  I  do  you  entreat 
With  all  submission  fall  at  George  s  feet. 
My  royal  master's  pleasure  and  your  good 
Is  my  design,  could  it  be  understood. 
Oh  !  for  the  eloquence  of  a  Demosthenes, 
Could  I  your  mind  impress,  or  could  I  please, 

*  The  writer  here  refers  to  the  bombastic  proclama 
tion  of  Burgoyne,  sent  out  from  his  camp  at  the  river 
Bouquet,  June  23d,  1 777.  To  show  the  burlesque  more 
understandingly,  the  proclamation,  as  previously  stated, 
is  given  under  Appendix  No.  III. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  45 

Could  I  but  melt  your  stubborn  temper  down 

To  due  submission  to  the  British  crown. 

When  I  have  done  my  work  I  am  content 

With  what  I'm  to  receive  from  Government. 

But  if  my  royal  master  you  despise, 

And  'gainst  the  clearest  light  you  shut  your  eyes, 

If  you  are  still  determined  to  rebel 

And  counteract  his  laws,  all  plann'd  so  well, 

Then  I'm  in  duty  bound  to  let  you  know 

What  I  have  full  authority  to  do : 

I  come  commissioned  from  great  Georges  throne, 

To  vindicate  his  honor  and  my  own. 

A  great  and  potent  army  I  command, 

With  floods  of  rebel  blood  to  drench  the  land  ; 

Thousands  of  Indians  I've  supplied  with  knives 

To  scalp  your  dearest  children  and  your  wives. 

If  I  but  nod  the  savage  army  flies, 

And  naught  is  heard  but  shrieks  and  female  cries. 

Believe  my  word,  this  sure  will  be  your  fate,* 

You  soon  must  feel  the  vengeance  of  the  State. 

Let  not  your  Hezekiahs  you  deceive, 

None  of  your  pulpit  orators  believe. 

In  whom  do  you  confide  ?     Come  tell, 

That  ye  against  my  master  dare  rebel. 

Is  it  on  Gallic  bands,f  or  is  it  Spain  f 

They'll  disappoint  your  trust,  your  hope  is  vain. 


*This,  again,  is  an  unjust  imputation  against 
Burgoyne,  who,  notwithstanding  the  threats  in  his 
proclamation,  did  all  he  could  to  restrain  Indian 
atrocities.  Indeed,  it  was  to  this  fact,  that  before  the 
battles  of  Saratoga  nearly  all  his  savage  allies  deserted 
him. 

f  Referring  to   rumors,  even  then  prevalent,  that 


46  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Were  they  with  you  combined,  they'd  with  you  fall, 

Just  like  a  tottering  fence  or  bowing  wall. 

What  Britain  did  last  war  you  know  full  well, 

Her  banners  wav'd,  united  powers  fell. 

What  armies  ever  could  her  force  withstand  ? 

Hath  she  not  conquered  both  the  sea  and  land  ? 

What  madness  then  to  oppose  a  power  so  great, 

While  weak  and  feeble  in  your  infant  state  !" 

Reply  :  Britain,  'tis  true,  her  conquests  far  hath  spread, 

Nations  to  her  have  bow'd  and  tribute  paid, 

Her  vict'ries  she  hath  spread  o'er  sea  and  land, 

Before  her  potent  armies  none  could  stand. 

Horror  and  darkness  now  are  spread  around, 

Our  woes  increase,  and  no  deliverer's  found. 

Great  desolation  in  the  north  is  made, 

Our  strongest  fort  resigned,  St.  Clair  is  fled; 

The  poor  distressed  inhabitants  now  fly, 

And  on  the  Providence  of  GOD  rely. 

The  baser  sort  are  flocking  to  Biirgoyne, 

Others  now  tremble,  lest  they  must  resign. 

Why  these  despairing  tho'ts  ?    Why  all  this  fear  ? 

Who  knows  but  GOD  will  soon  for  us  appear? 

The  night's  the  darkest,  best  observers  say, 

E'en  just  before  the  dawning  of  the  day  ; 

Who  knows  but  these  our  groans  and  female  cries, 

Which  sound  thro'  all  the  woods,  may  reach  the  skies  ? 

Our  cause  is  just,  we  dare  appeal  to  heaven ; 

We  fight  for  what  our  gracious  GOD  has  given. 

You  threaten  vengeance  with  your  dreadful  rod, 

As  if  you  fill'd  the  seat  and  throne  of  GOD. 

But  hark  !  the  sov'reign  speaks,  Vengeance  is  mine, 

And  now  I  will  repay  it  on  Burgoyne. 

France  would  soon  take  part  with  the  colonies  in  their 
struggle  with  the  Mother  country. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  47 

The  horrors  which  you  have  denounced  of  late 

Shall  fall  upon  your  own  devoted  pate. 

Burgoyne  is  rushing  on  in  quest  of  blood, 

And  Indians  shout  for  victory  thro'  the  wood. 

He  solemnly  declares,  unless  we  yield 

Horror  and  death  await  us  in  the  field. 

He  sends  his  bloody  flag  from  house  to  house ; 

The  mountains  travail,  and  bring  forth  a  mouse. 

While  thus  he  threatens  ruin  to  these  States, 

Behold  !  here  comes  the  brave  heroic  GATES. 

The  gloom  dispell'd,  the  light  doth  now  appear, 

And  shines  thro'  all  the  Northern  Hemisphere  ; 

Our  troops  collect  and  marshal  in  array, 

Complete  in  arms,  their  banners  they  display. 

Burgoyne  now  views  them  all  in  arms  complete, 

Struck  with  a  panic,  orders  a  retreat. 

The  soldiers  trembling,  his  commands  obey, 

And  he,  the  most  intrepid,  leads  the  way. 

Our  brave  commander  then  pursues  with  speed, 

Soon  overtakes,  and  numbers  lie  and  bleed ; 

Our  valiant  troops  enclose  Burgoyne  around, 

And  take  the  best  advantage  of  the  ground. 

The  British  hero  that  appear'd  so  prompt 

Is  now  enclos'd  by  Yankees  in  a  swamp. 

The  great  Burgoyne  is  now  overwhelm'd  with  grief, 

Nor  has  he  any  hope  to  obtain  relief. 

The  rebel  army  he  with  scorn  defied 

Have  him  encompass'd  round  on  ev'ry  side. 

Alas  !  how  great  his  grief,  how  'cute  his  pain  ! 

How  great  is  his  reproach,  how  great  the  stain  ! 

Surprising  strange!  how  singular  his  case  ! 

By  rebels  close  confined  in  such  a  place. 

One  thing  especially  that  makes  him  mourn, 

Great  generals  and  lords  that  strut  and  spurn 

Are  fond  of  having  room  enough  to  turn. 


48  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

What  seiz'd  his  soul  with  horror  and  surprise, 

He  expects  now  soon  to  fall  a  sacrifice— 

A  sacrifice  to  Liberty's  brave  sons. 

For  blood  of  innocence  and  dying  groans 

His  sorrows  rise ;  an  overwhelming  flood, 

Conscience  accus'd,  and  justice  cried  for  blood. 

Whole  rivers  of  such  blood  could  ne'er  atone 

For  all  the  horrid  murders  he  had  done. 

Now,  thunderstruck,  with  these  ill-boding  fates, 

Resigns  himself  and  army  up  to  Gates. 


THE  FALL  OF  BURGOYNE. 
BY  REV.  WHEELER  CASE. 

Is  this  Burgoyne,  Burgoyne  the  great, 

Who  fill'd  our  land  with  woe, 
And  threaten'd  vengeance  from  the  State, 

Is  he  now  fell  so  low? 

Is't  he  that  made  the  earth  to  tremble, 

That  was  so  great  a  curse, 
That  doth  great  Babel's  king  resemble, 

Is  he  now  weak  like  us  ? 

To  Indians  he  gives  stretch  no  more, 
Nor  them  supplies  with  knives 

To  stain  our  land  with  crimson  gore, 
With  them  to  scalp  our  wives. 

His  threat'ning  proclamation's  stopped, 
He's  now  o'erspread  with  gloom, 

The  wings  with  which  he  flew  are  cropp'd, 
He  has  no  elbow  room. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  49 

His  titles  he  proclaims  no  more, 

No  more  his  triumphs  spread, 
His  thund'ring  cannon  cease  to  roar, 

And  all  his  joys  are  fled. 

Where  is  his  great  and  mighty  host, 

That  huge  gigantic  race, 
The  sons  of  Anak,  Britain's  boast  ?  J 

They're  pris'ners  in  disgrace. 

Pris'ners  to  rebels,  Yankees  too, 

O  mortifying  stroke ! 
They  caught  Burgoyne  with  all  his  crew, 

Britons  now  wear  the  yoke. 

Great  Washington,  that  man  of  might, 

Hath  laid  a  snare  for  Howe  ; 
Unless  with  speed  he  takes  his  flight, 

He  to  the  yoke  must  bow. 


AN  ANSWER  FOR  THE  MESSENGERS  OF 
THE   NATION. 

(Is.  14:  32.) 
BY  REV.  WHEELER  CASE. 

WHEN  messengers  come  from  a  foreign  land, 
With  peaceful  branch  of  olive  in  their  hand, 
If  hand  and  heart  unite,  if  both  agree, 
From  ill  designs  and  all  suspicion  free, 
We'll  then  receive  them  in  the  arms  of  love ; 
They  are  not  men,  but  angels  from  above.* 
*  *  *  #  * 

Now  let  us  view  the  Northern  Hemisphere, 
And  see  the  footsteps  of  Jehovah  there. 

*  The  part  omitted,  marked  by  stars,  refers  entirely 


50  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

We'll  first  survey  the  dark  side  of  the  cloud, 
Where  scenes  of  woe  in  dark  succession  crowd ; 
The  cruel  savage  tribes  in  union  join, 
And  with  the  British  army  all  combine  ; 
They  soon  are  in  possession  of  Fort  "  Ti ; " 
Our  troops  retreat,  and  with  the  country  fly. 
An  heart  of  stone  must  bleed  to  hear  the  cries, 
While  numbers  fall  a  bloody  sacrifice 
To  Britairis  cruel  sons  and  savage  rage. 
As  naught  but  blood  their  fury  would  assuage, 
A  dark  and  dismal  gloom  around  us  spread, 
And  joy  and  gladness  from  our  souls  were  fled  ; 
We  thought  our  country  lost,  our  freedom  gone, 
And  these  United  States  were  all  undone. 
The  great  BURGOYNE'S  most  formidable  host 
Now  march  along,  and  as  they  march  they  boast. 
They  boldly  rush  along,  they  rage  and  roar, 
Like  swelling  waves  that  dash  against  the  shore. 
Now  is  the  time  for  Ziori s  God  t'  appear, 
His  people's  groans  and  cries  have  reached  his  ear, 
The  Lord  for  them  hath  laid  a  secret  snare ; 
They'll  not  escape,  but  be  entangl'd  there. 
Great  Gen'ral  Gates  appears,  inspir'd  from  heaven, 
Wisdom  and  fortitude  to  him  are  given. 
Our  soldiers  all  collect  from  East  to  West, 
With  martial  ardor  glowing  in  their  breast ; 
They  stop  the  great  Burgoyne  in  his  career, 
Him  they  surround,  his  feet  are  in  the  snare; 
With  forc'd  submission  now  he  bows  to  Gates, 
He  and  his  hosts  made  prisoners  to  these  States. 


to  Washington  and  the  battles  of  Trenton  and  Prince 
ton.  As  this  is  not  germane  to  the  object  of  this 
work,  it  is  here  omitted. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  51 

Thick  clouds  of  darkness  that  our  heads  hung  o'er 
Have  vanish'd  suddenly,  and  seen  no  more ; 
The  rays  of  light  break  forth,  how  clear  the  skies, 
Our  gloom  is  scatter'd,  and  our  hopes  arise. 
May  love  and  gratitude  inspire  our  breast, 
Praise  God  for  these,  and  trust  him  for  the  rest. 
These  gracious  smiles  are  to  prepare  the  way 
For  greater  things,  for  a  more  glorious  day. 
This  horrid,  bloody  scene  erelong  will  end, 
And  richer  blessings  from  on  high  descend. 
What's  been  a  snare  to  us,  what's  prov'd  our  fate, 
We've  been  too  long  corrupted  with  the  great. 
The  British  king  and  his  most  vicious  court 
Practise  all  kinds  of  vice,  and  them  support. 
Most  nat'rally  these  painted  vices  flow 
From  higher  ranks  to  those  that  are  below  ;* 
How  rapidly  they've  flown  down  from  the  great, 
In  silver  streams,  and  poison'd  every  State. 
Jehovah  reigns  above,  and  rules  below, 
He  dries  our  tears,  and  they  shall  cease  to  flow ; 
And  blessings  pour  on  those  where  virtue  reigns, 
The  yoke  of  tyrants  broke,  and  all  their  chains ; 
Vice,  put  to  flight,  hides  its  malignant  head, 
And  plotting  foes  no  more  in  corners  hid  ; 
Peace,  like  a  river,  flows  thro'  all  the  land, 
No  tyrant  moves  his  tongue  or  lifts  his  hand ; 
Our  liberty  extends  both  far  and  wide, 
Our  borders  lengthen  out  on  every  side ; 
States  in  successive  growing  numbers  rise, 
The  greatest  empire  this  below  the  skies. 

*  Those  vices  to  which  the  writer  alludes  have  been 
most  admirably  brought  out  by  Mr.  J.  C.  Markham 
in  his  alto  rilievos  which  adorn  the  Saratoga  Monu 
ment. 


52  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

In  gloomy  deserts,  our  most  distant  land, 
Large  cities  shall  be  built  and  churches  stand ; 
There  Zion's  sons,  commission'd  from  above, 
Shall  spread  the  news  of  their  Redeemer's  love. 
Where  wolves  now  range,  and  other  beasts  of  prey; 
Where  Indian  tribes  more  savage  are  than  they  ; 
Where  now  the  war-whoop  sounds  they  bow  prostrate, 
Shall  worship  at  the  King  of  Zion's  gate  ; 
Where  stand  the  oak,  the  beech  and  the  tall  pine, 
There  shall  be  corn-fields  and  the  fruitful  vine  ; 
Where  marshes  abound  and  the  wild  flag  grows, 
There  shall  be  the  lily  and  the  blushing  rose ; 
The  most  delicious  fruits  shall  ripen  there, 
The  peach,  the  plum,  the  apple  and  the  pear. 
Trade  unconfined  extensively  shall  grow, 
And  riches  here  from  every  nation  flow. 
Our  naval  force  how  great !  our  fleets  abound, 
Our  flocks  and  herds  spread  o'er  the  land  around  : 
Here  every  sort  of  fruit  springs  up  and  grows, 
And  all  the  land  with  milk  and  honey  flows. 


THE  FIRST  CHAPTER  OF  THE  LAMENTA 
TIONS  OF  GENERAL  BURGOYNE. 

(Written  in  1778.) 

BY  REV.  WHEELER  CASE.* 

GOOD  heavens!  how  deep  I'm  plung'd  in  woe ! 
None  knows  what  I  now  undergo. 
Britain  assum'd  a  sovereign  power, 
To  crush  her  sons  while  in  their  flower. 

*  See  previous  poem  for  sketch  of  Rev.  Mr.  Case's 
life. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  53 

One  now  was  wanting  bold  and  brave 

T  enforce  her  laws,  the  sons  to  enslave. 

To  get  a  name,  to  gain  applause, 

I  readily  espous'd  her  cause. 

I  undertook  amidst  the  throng 

To  head  her  army,  right  or  wrong. 

Britain  I  left,  and  cross' d  the  seas, 

His  Majesty  and  North  to  please. 

I  landed  on  Canadia's  shore, 

The  land  and  lakes  I  then  pass'd  o'er ; 

I  march'd  along,  my  banners  spread, 

And  struck  the  rebels  all  with  dread. 

I  soon  was  master  of  Fort  "Ti;"* 

Like  sheep  they  all  before  me  fly ; 

My  Indians  shout,  my  cannon  roar, 

The  land  is  stained  with  crimson  gore. 

All  things  are  pleasing,  all  things  bright, 

The  rebel  army  dare  not  fight. 

The  sun  in  its  meridian  shone, 

I  thought  the  day  was  now  my  own. 

To  Britain  I  dispatch'd  a  post, 

And  joy  was  spread  thro'  all  their  coast, 

But  oh,  the  change,  the  sudden  change ! 

Affairs  now  took  a  turn  most  strange. 

The  hero,  Gates,  appears  in  sight, 

His  troops  all  cloth'd  with  armor  bright; 

They  all  as  one  their  banners  spread, 

With  "Death  or  Victory'  on  their  head.f 


*Ticonderoga.  In  the  common  conversation  of  the 
day,  this  fort  was  called  Fort  uTi,"  for  short. 

f  General  Gates's  soldiers  wore  this  badge  in  capitals 
on  their  hats,  "  Death  or  Victory?  Note  to  the  original 
poem. 


54:  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

A  sudden  panic  seiz'd  my  breast ; 
Now,  to  retreat  I  thought  was  best. 
I  gave  the  word  and  led  the  way, 
My  orders  all  as  one  obey. 
In  this  precipitate  retreat, 
Our  whole  dependence  was  our  feet. 
Like  Tories,  they  have  thus  deceiv'd, 
Oh  !  that  we'd  never  them  believ'd. 
While  running  thro'  a  swampy  ground, 
The  rebel  army  us  surround ; 

0  horrid  place !  O  dreadful  gloom  ! 

1  mourn  for  want  of  elbow  room. 
My  tawny  soldiers,  from  me  fled, 
Have  now  returned  to  scalp  my  head. 
I  hear  them  whoop,  I  hear  them  yell, 
I'm  at  the  very  gates  of  hell. 

O  horror  this  !  unhappy  wretch  ! 
They've  took  an  unexpected  stretch  ; 
I'm  here  confin'd,  and  naught  to  eat, 
They've  robb'd  me  of  my  bread  and  meat 
Water,  I  thought,  was  always  free, 
But  that  is  now  denied  to  me. 

0  that  my  royal  master  knew 
How  I  am  treated  by  this  crew  ! 
He,  lion-like,  of  whelps  bereav'd, 
Would  see  us  instantly  reliev'd — 
No,  the  attempt  would  all  be  vain, 
They  fight  like  devils,  not  like  men. 
But  who  would  ever  have  believ'd 
That  I  could  thus  have  been  deceiv'd? 

1  thought  five  thousand  men,  or  less, 
Thro'  all  these  States  might  safely  pass, 
March  boldly  on  one  steady  course, 
The  States  all  trembling  at  our  force.* 

*  In  allusion  to  the  remark  of  General  Burgoyne  to 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  55 

My  error  now  I  see  too  late, 
Here  I'm  confin'd  within  this  State.* 
Yes,  in  this  little  spot  of  ground, 
Enclos'd  by  Yankees  all  around. 
With  this  five  thousand — yes  with  ten, 
And  these  Great  Britain  s  chosen  men. 
In  Europe  let  it  ne'er  be  known, 
Nor  publish  it  in  Askelon, 
Lest  the  uncircumcised  rejoice, 
And  distant  nations  join  their  voice.f 
What  will  my  friends  in  Britain  say  ? 
I  wrote  them  I  had  gained  the  day, 
I  made  them  both  rejoice  and  sing,J 
But  now  they'll  strike  a  mournful  string. 
Three  things  now  strike  me  with  surprise  : 
First,  I  believ'd  the  Tories'  lies  ; 
What  also  brought  me  to  this  plight, 
I  thought  the  Yankees  would  not  fight.§ 

George  IV.,  when  contemplating  his  expedition — viz., 
that  "  with  five  thousand  men  he  could  easily  march 
through  the  entire  American  colonies." 

*  Rhode  Island,  where  Burgoyne  was  kept  until  his 
exchange. 

f  Burgoyne,  as  mentioned  in  the  preliminary  sketch 
of  that  general,  before  coming  to  America  had  served 
with  great  distinction  in  Europe — a  fact  which  caused 
him  to  be  selected  to  command  this  expedition.  No 
wonder,  then,  that  he  should  have  felt  terribly  morti 
fied  at  the  unlucky  result  of  his  campaign  in  America. 

J  Burgoyne's  despatches  to  England  previous  to  his 
surrender  had  been  of  the  most  encouraging  descrip 
tion. 

§  Probably  in  allusion  to  the  fact  that  Governor 
Skene  had  told  Burgoyne,  before  the  latter  sent  out  his 


56  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Thirdly,  I'm  most  asham'd  to  say, 

I  fled  so  fast  I  missed  my  way. 

How  strange  that  I  should  take  this  route,  ' 

When  I'm  so  swamp'd  and  hemm'd  about, 

The  de'il  himself  could  ne'er  get  out. 

Alas !  I'm  overborne  with  grief! 

There's  none  appears  for  my  relief ! 

Where  are  my  titles  and  my  fame  ? 

I've  lost  my  honor  and  my  name. 

At  Bennington,  Stark  gave  the  wound 

Which,  like  a  gangrene,  spread  around 

O'er  Saratoga's  cursed  ground. 

Heart-sickness  seiz'd  the  camp  so  fast, 

All  courage  fail'd  ;  and  there  at  last 

Arnold  and  Lincoln  gave  the  blow 

That  proved  our  final  overthrow. 

Arnold  with  wings  our  lines  flew  o'er, 

The  like  I  never  saw  before  ; 

expedition  to  Bennington,  that  the  inhabitants  would 
make  no  resistance — in  fact,  said  Skene,  "  all  you  have 
to  do  is  to  scatter  plunder  on  your  march,  and  then 
the  rebels  will  be  so  busily  engaged  in  collecting  it, 
that  you  need  have  no  fear  of  any  attack."  Skene,  in 
fact,  in  more  senses  than  one,  was  Burgoyne's  evil 
genius ;  for  it  was  through  his  advice  that  Burgoyne 
advanced  by  land  in  pursuit  of  Schuyler,  instead  of  tak 
ing  Lake  George,  by  which  means  so  much  time  was 
lost  that  Schuyler  had  ample  time  to  gather  his  forces 
to  make  his  successful  stand  at  Saratoga.  Ramsey, 
in  his  "  History  of  the  American  Revolution,"  states 
that  Skene  gave  this  advice,  so  that,  at  the  expense 
of  Great  Britain,  he  could  have  a  road  cut  through 
from  Skenesborough  (Whitehall,  N.  Y.)  to  benefit 
himself. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  57 

He  threaten'd  death  to  every  one 
That  dar'd  to  fire  another  gun. 
The  Hessians,  thunderstruck,  turn  pale,* 
The  stupid  asses'  hearts  now  fail  ; 
Thus  seiz'd  with  trembling  and  dismay, 
Their  new  commander  they  obey  ; 
The  panic  spread  from  breast  to  breast, 
And^I  was  struck  among  the  rest. 
Language  now  fails — it  can't  express 
Th'  amazing  horror  and  distress. 
Cannon-like  claps  of  thunder  roar, 
Their  balls  like  hail  upon  us  pour ; 
Flashes  of  fire  around  us  blaze  : 
The  sun  now  lost  his  feebler  rays : 
Volumes  of  smoke  o'ercloud  the  skies, 
And  scenes  of  blood  salute  our  eyes. 
The  gloom  of  death  around  us  waits, 
And  all  the  vengeance  of  the  States. 
I  must  submit  or  die — but  how 
To  these  despised  Yankees  bow  ? 
I  wish  I  never  had  been  born. 
If  I  submit,  I'm  laugh'd  to  scorn  ; 


*  Brunswickers,  not  Hessians,  who  were  chiefly  in 
the  Southern  Department.  The  Brunswickers,  at  the 
second  battle  of  Saratoga,  manned  the  Brunswick  re 
doubt  captured  by  Arnold  in  his  impetuous  charge  at 
the  close  of  the  battle.  Through  the  patriotic  efforts  of 
Mrs.  E.  H.  Wahvorth,  that  most  energetic  trustee  of 
the  Saratoga  Monument  Association,  General  de  Pey- 
ster  has  placed  a  beautiful  tablet  marking  the  site  of 
Arnold's  charge.  Hon.  James  M.  Marvin,  George  M. 
Pullman  and  others  have  also  erected  tablets  on 
different  points  of  the  battle-ground. 


58  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

If  I  refuse,  I  know  my  doom— 
Among  the  living  I've  no  room. 
The  blood  of  innocence  I've  shed — 
This  fills  my  guilty  soul  with  dread. 
My  brethren's  blood  against  me  cries, 
And  calls  for  vengeance  from  the  skies. 
Cain's  crime  was  great,  but  not  so  bad, 
The  blood  of  only  one  he  shed  ; 
But  I  have  laid  a  country  waste, 
And  human  nature  have  disgraced ; 
I've  slain  each  sex  of  ev'ry  age, 
And  slaughter'd  victims  to  my  rage.* 
One  demon  only  tempted  Cain, 
Legion,  and  more  within  me  reign. 
Horror  and  death  do  me  surprise, 
A  shower  of  lead  around  me  flies. 
In  Saul,  when  guilt  and  fear  arise, 
Away  to  Endor  straight  he  goes  ; 
He  prays  the  witch,  tho'  most  unjust, 
To  raise  up  Samuel^  from  the  dust, 
That  he  might  tell  what  would  be  best 
For  him  to  do  while  thus  distress' d. 
But  I'm  confined,  and  cannot  go 
To  Endor,  there  to  tell  my  woe  ; 
I'm  here  pent  up  to  grieve  and  mourn, 
I  scarce  have  room  enough  to  turn. 

*As  stated  ante,  this  imputation  on  Burgoyne  is  most 
unjust.  Still,  allowance  must  be  made  for  the  bitter 
partisan  feeling  of  the  day. 

f  The  fact  of  the  writer  emphasizing  Samuel  would 
seem  to  show  he  had  some  one  particularly  in  his 
mind — an  allusion  which,  at  the  time  this  was  written, 
was  probably  understood,  but  which  is  lost  to  us 
readers  of  the  present  day. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  59 

O  that  that  prophet  would  arise, 
My  priests  have  told  me  naught  but  lies. 
What  shall  I  say  ? — what  shall  I  do  ? 
"  My  council,  now  I  turn  to  you/' 
A  council  now  of  war  is  held  ; 
They  all  as  one  agree  to  yield ; 
Their  colors  strike,  to  Gales  they  bow, 
Lay  down  their  arms,  and  off  they  go.* 
*•***# 

As  they  begin  to  march,  as  soon 

The  conquerors  all  agree 
To  sound  the  "  Yankee  Doodle  "tune 

Upon  the  highest  key.f 

*  This,  again,  is  in  allusion  to  the  fact  that  Burgoyne, 
against  the  advice  of  Riedesel  and  all  the  officers  whom 
he  had  summoned  into  council,  was  at  first  deter 
mined  not  to  surrender,  but  to  try  and  reach  Fort  Ed 
ward,  and  thence,  via  Lakes  George  and  Champlain,  to 
Canada.  And  it  was  only  after  the  most  strenuous  ex 
ertions  on  the  part  of  his  generals  that  he  finally  yielded. 
Had  he  not  done  so,  his  entire  army  would  have 
been  compelled  to  surrender  most  ignominiously,  and 
without  any  conditions  whatever. 

f  "  The  origin  of  this  air,"  says  Lossing,  "  is  involved 
in  obscurity.  It  seems  to  be  older  than  the  United 
States.  It  is  also  said  to  be  the  tune  of  an  old  Eng 
lish  nursery  song  called  *  Lucy  Locket,'  which  was 
current  in  the  time  of  Charles  II.  In  New  England 
Colonial  times  it  was  known  as  *  Lydia  Fisher's  Jig.' 
A  song  composed  in  derision  of  Cromwell  began  with 
" '  Yankee  Doodle  came  in  town, 

Riding  on  a  pony, 
With  a  feather  in  his  hat, 
Upon  a  macaroni.' " 


60  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Musicians  all  of  various  kinds 
With  utmost  skill  now  play, 

To  raise  the  pris'ners'  drooping  minds, 
And  demons  drive  away. 

Such  charms  of  music  ne'er  before 
Were  heard  within  our  land, 

But  all  their  skill  they  now  give  o'er 
For  want  of  David's  hand.* 


A  DIALOGUE  BETWEEN  COLONEL  PAINE 
AND  MISS  CLORINDA  FAIRCHILD, 
WHEN  TAKING  LEAVE  OF  HER  TO 
GO  ON  THE  NORTHERN  EXPEDITION 
AGAINST  BURGOYNE. 

Col.  Paine. — I'm  come  to  let  my  dear  Clorinda  know 
My  bleeding  country  calls,  and  I  must  go. 

*  A  surgeon  who  was  with  Sir  William  Johnson  in 
1 755,  at  Lake  George,  composed  a  song  to  the  air  which 
he  called  "  Yankee,"  as  a  take-off  of  the  uncouth  appear 
ance  of  the  Provincial  troops.  Contrary,  however,  to 
his  design,  it  was  considered  good  martial  music,  and 
became  very  popular.  While  the  British  were  in 
Boston  some  poet  wrote  a  piece  in  derision  of  the  New 
England  troops,  which  Mr.  Lossing  gives  in  full  in  his 
"Cyclopaedia  of  United  States  History"  (Harper  & 
Bros.).  This  is  the  original  "  Yankee  Doodle  "  song. 
''The  tune,"  says  Lossing,  "  is  so  associated  with  the 
patriotic  deeds  of  Americans,  that  it  always  inspires  a 
love  of  country  in  the  heart  of  any  good  citizen."  It 
is  now  accepted  as  our  national  air,  and  is  in  positive 
contrast  in  spirit  to  the  stately  "  God  Save  the  King" 
of  Old  England. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  61 

Distressed  it  calls  aloud,  To  arms  !  to  arms  ! 
The  trumpet  sounds,  I  now  must  leave  your  charms. 
I've  drawn  my  sword,  I'll  go  forth  with  the  brave, 
And  die  a  freeman,  ere  I  live  a  slave. 

Clo. — Good   Heavens  !  can  this  be  true — can  it  be 

so? 

You  pierce  my  heart,  I'm  overwhelmed  with  woe. 
Is  this  your  love — is  this  the  kind  return, 
To  win  my  heart,  and  leave  me  thus  to  mourn  ? 
Oh,  should  you  fall  a  victim  there  to  death, 
I  can't  survive,  I  must  resign  my  breath  ! 

Paine. — My  dear  Clorain,  forbear  to  weep — forbear  ! 
I  trust  my  life  to  God's  paternal  care ; 
He  will  protect  the  men  whose  cause  is  just 
And  in  the  God  of  armies  put  their  trust. 
We'll  boldly  go  and  smite  those  rebels  dead 
Who  dare  oppose  our  Continental  Head  ; 
Then  I'll  return  and  my  Clorinda  wed. 

Clo. — If  naught  your  mind  will  change,  then  take 

the  field, 

Go  play  the  man,  and  Heaven  be  your  shield. 
Go  forth  and  act  the  hero,  crush  our  foes, 
Who  slav'ry  love  and  liberty  oppose. 
May  Liberty's  brave  sons  the  triumph  spread, 
Put  all  their  foes  to  flight,  or  view  them  dead. 
Should  Heaven,  propitious,  our  good  cause  maintain, 
And  our  brave  troops  with  you  victorious  reign, 
Then  cheerfully  with  them  we'll  victory  sing, 
And  join  with  them  in  praise  of  Zion's  King. 
With  what  transporting  joy  I'd  then  receive 
That  dearest  man  with  whom  I  wish  to  live. 
But  oh  !  the  cruel  fate  of  war — 

Paine. — My  dear   Clorain,  forbear ;    we  now  must 

part. 
Adieu,  my  love — but  oh  !  my  bleeding  heart. 


62  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

This  said,  the  tears  flow'd  from  her  eyes, 
Her  cheeks  all  pale  spread  o'er  ; 

Each  other  they  embrace  with  sighs, 
'Till  they  could  weep  no  more. 

#  »  *  *  * 

Clo. — Farewell,  my  dear,  farewell,  dear  Colonel  Paine 
Heaven  be  your  guard,  while  foes  around  are  slain, 
Return  you  safe,  where  love  and  freedom  reign. 

Paine. — Farewell,  my  dear  Clorain,  my  only  fair, 
May  angels  keep  you  safe  from  ev'ry  snare, 
Adieu,  my  dear,  I  leave  you  in  their  care. 


A  SHORT  REVIEW  OF  BURGOYNE'S 
EXPEDITION. 

BY    ROBERT    DINSMORE.* 

MY  faithful  friend  and  uncle,  kind, 

I  would  bring  some  things  to  your  mind, 

*  Robert  Dinsmore,  poet,  born  in  Windham,  N.  H., 
October  7th,  1757;  died  there  March  i6th,  1836. 
He  was  of  Scotch-Irish  descent.  At  the  age  of  eigh 
teen  he  enlisted  in  the  Revolutionary  Army,  and  served 
at  the  battle  of  Saratoga.  He  became  a  farmer  at 
Windham,  was  a  zealous  Presbyterian,  and  used  to 
make  verses  on  topics  arising  from  personal  incidents. 
He  called  himself  the  "  Rustic  Bard,"  and  published,  in 
1828,  a  volume  entitled  "  Incidental  Poems."  In  his 
"  Old  Portraits  and  Modern  Sketches"  Whittier  says  : 
"  He  lived  to  a  good  old  age,  a  home-loving,  unpre 
tending  farmer,  cultivating  his  acres  with  his  own 
horny  hands,  and  cheering  the  long  rainy  days  and 
winter  evenings  with  homely  rhyme.  He  wrote  some 
times  to  amuse  his  neighbors,  often  to  soothe  their  sor- 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  63 

Which  still  impress'd  on  mine  I  find, 

By  recollection  ; 
That  seems  my  heart  with  yours  to  bind 

In  strong  affection. 

From  my  first  dawn  of  life  you've  known  me  ; 
When  Nature  on  the  world  had  thrown  me, 
You  did  a  first-born  nephew  own  me, 

Or  younger  brother  ; 
And  friendship  ever  since  have  shown  me, 

Kind  like  my  mother. 

Childhood  and  youth,  manhood  and  age, 
You've  been  my  friend  in  every  stage  ; 
Sometimes  in  sport  we  would  engage, 

Our  nerves  to  try  ; 
Sometimes  t'  explore  the  music  page, 

The  genius  ply. 

When  British  laws  would  us  enthrall, 
Our  country  for  defence  did  call ; 
Then  martial  fire  inspir'd  us  all, 

To  arms  we  flew ; 
And  as  a  soldier,  stand  or  fall, 

I  went  with  you  ! 

O'er  western  hills  we  travell'd  far, 
Pass'd  Saratoga,  the  site  of  war, 


row  under  domestic  calamity,  or  to  give  expression  to 
his  own." 

The  poem  here  given  was  written  to  Deacon  Isaac 
Cochran,  of  Antrim,  N.  H.,  his  mother's  brother,  who 
was  a  lieutenant  at  the  taking  of  General  Burgoyne, 
October  i;th,  1/77. 


64  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Where  Burgoyne  roll'd  his  feudal  car 

Down  Hudson's  strand  :' 
And  Gates,  our  glorious  western*  star, 

Held  high  command. 

From  the  green  ridgef  we  glanced  our  eyes, 
Where  village  flames  illum'd  the  skies. 
Destruction  there  was  no  surprise, 

On  Hudson's  shore ! 
Though  smoke  in  burning  pillars  rise, 

And  cannons  roar  ! 

But  to  Fort  Edward  we  were  sent, 
Through  icy  BartenskilnJ  we  went, 
And  on  that  plain  we  pitch'd  our  tent, 

'Gainst  rain  and  snow  ; 
Our  orders  there,  was  \_sic\  to  prevent 

The  flying  foe. 

By  counter  orders,  back  we  came, 
And  cross'd  the  Hudson's  rapid  stream, 
At  Schuyler's  Mills,§  of  no  small  fame, 

Thence  took  our  post, 
Near  Burgoyne's  line,  with  fixed  aim 

To  take  his  host! 

*  Gates's  home  was  then  in  Pennsylvania,  at  that 
time  considered  West. 

fNow,  the  road  leading  from  the  village  of  Quaker 
Springs  to  Schuylersville,  N.  Y.  This  road  was  first 
cut  through  by  Burgoyne  to  make  a  path  for  General 
Fraser,  who  led  the  right  wing  in  its  advance  south. 

JThe  Battenkill,  which,  rising  in  Vermont,  empties 
into  the  Hudson,  between  Fort  Miller  and  Schuylers 
ville. 

§  The  present  village  of  Schuylersville,  N.  Y. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  65 

With  courage  bold,  we  took  the  field, 
Our  foes  no  more  their  swords  could  wield, 
God  was  our  strength,  and  He  our  shield, 

A  present  aid. 
Proud  Burgoyne's  army  there  did  yield, 

All  captive  made ! 

Great  Britain's  honor  there  was  stain'd, 
We  sang  a  glorious  victory  gain'd ! 
From  hence  our  States  a  rank  obtain'd, 

'Mongst  nations  great ; 
Our  future  glory  was  ordain'd, 

As  sure  as  fate  ! 

To  Windham,  back  with  joy  we  turn'd, 
Where  parents  dear  our  absence  mourn'd  ; 
And  our  fair  friends  in  rapture  burn'd 

To  see  our  faces  ! 
Sweet  pearly  drops  their  cheeks  adorn'd 

In  our  embraces ! 

When  all  our  vanquish'd  foes  were  fled, 
Love,  peace  and  harmony  were  shed, 
Like  oil  descending  on  the  head, 

Or  milk  or  wine  ; 
Williams,*  the  man  of  God,  us  fed 

With  food  divine. 

O  !  let  not  you  and  I  \sic\  forget 
How  often  we've  together  met, 
Like  Heman  and  Jeduthon,f  set 

In  God's  own  house  ; 
And  solemnly  his  table  at 

Renew'd  our  vows ! 

*  Rev.  Simon  Williams. 

fThe  two  principal  leaders  of  the  singing  in  the 
congregation  at  Windham. 


66  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

And  when  the  sacred  scene  was  past, 

We  sang  Doxology  at  last, 

To  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost, 

United  Three ! 
One  God,  our  souls  redeemed  last, 

So  let  it  be. 

While  Reason  in  her  seat  remains, 
And  blood  runs  streaming  in  my  veins, 
Or  Memory  her  power  retains, 

I  shall  review, 
And  think  upon  the  various  scenes 

I've  past  with  you. 


FOUR  BURGOYNE  EPIGRAMS. 

I* 

IN  seventeen  hundred  and  seventy-seven, 
General  Burgoyne  set  out  for  Heaven ; 
But,  as  the  Yankees  would  rebel, 
He  missed  his  route  and  went  to  Hell. 

II.  , 

Burgoyne,  alas  !  unknowing  future  fates, 

Could  force  his  way  through  woods,   but  not  through 

GATES.f 

*My  friend,  Dr.  James  D.  Butler,  formerly  of  Ver 
mont,  but  now  (1893)  of  Madison,  Wis.,  sends  me  the 
above,  which,  he  writes,  was  current  in  Vermont  for  a 
longtime  after  the  Revolution. 

f  The  author  of  the  above  epigram,  which  was  pub 
lished  in  1777,  shortly  after  the  battles  of  Saratoga, 
was  David  Edwards.  He  was  born  in  the  city  of  New 
York  in  the  spring  of  1747,  of  English  parents.  His 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  67 

III. 
A  CABINET  REPARTEE* 

To  North  the  Lean  said  George  the  Wise, 
Here's  with  one  Arnold  much  ado ; 

father,  John  Edwards,  was  a  well-known  character  in 
town,  where  he  followed  the  profession  of  a  "  tea-water 
man."  At  the  early  age  of  twelve  years,  David  was 
apprenticed  to  Garret  Noel,  at  the  Meal  Market 
Noel  was  the  principal  bookseller  in  the  city,  and  he 
afterward  transferred  young  Edwards  to  Hugh  Gaine, 
the  publisher  of  the  New  York  Merc^l,ry,  who  taught 
him  the  printing  business.  David  became  a  member 
of  a  secret  association  called  the  "  Liberty  Boys,"  of 
whom  Isaac  Lean  \vas  at  the  head,  and  was  the 
author  of  most  of  the  political  squibs  circulated  by 
them  in  the  city.  He  was  an  active  participator  in 
the  stamp  and  tea-act  troubles,  and  was  wounded 
on  January  iSth,  1770,  in  the  fray  which  occurred 
between  the  citizens  and  soldiers  on  Golden  Hill  (John 
Street,  between  Gold  and  Cliff  streets),  since  known  as 
the  "  Battle  of  Golden  Hill,"  and  which  action,  instead 
of  that  at  Lexington,  caused  the  first  bloodshed  in  the 
war  of  the  American  Revolution.  He  remained  in 
the  city  until  its  occupation  by  the  British,  in  1776, 
when  he  went  with  his  employer  to  Newark,  and 
remained  there  a  week,  during  which  time  Gaine  made 
his  terms  with  Howe,  and  returned  to  New  York  and 
became  a  rank  Tory.  David,  however,  refused  to  ac 
company  him,  and,  going  to  Trenton,  was  at  once  em 
ployed  by  Isaac  Collins,  the  printer  of  the  New  Jersey 
Gazette,  in  whose  employ  he  continued  until  the  close 
of  the  war.  In  1784  he  returned  to  New  York  and 


68  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

The  drowsy  Premier,  starting,  cries, 
'Tis  well,  my  liege,  there  are  not  two  ! 

IV. 
OUR  COMMANDERS.f 

GAGE  nothing  did,  and  .went  to  pot ; 
Howe  lost  one  town,  another  got ; 
Guy  J  nothing  lost,  and  nothing  won  ; 
Dunmore  was  homewards  forced  to  run  ; 
Clinton  was  beat,  and  got  a  garter, 
And  bouncing  Burgoyne  catch'd  a  Tartar; 
Thus  all  we  gain  for  millions  spent 
Is  to  be  laugh'd  at,  and  repent. 

worked  for  Samuel  London  until  his  death,  which  occur 
red  in  1794.  The  greater  part  of  the  poetical  effusions 
which  appeared  in  Collins's  paper  were  attributed  to 
Edwards.  For  a  portion  of  the  above  sketch  I  am  in 
debted  to  Albert  J.  Disney,  in  the  Historical  Maga 
zine,  Vol.  III.,  page  350. 

Another  version  of  the  authorship  of  the  verses- 
doubtless  without  foundation — is  that  it  was  composed 
by  a  student  at  the  Westminster  School,  who  wrote  it 
in  Latin  as  an  epigrammatic  couplet  upon  the  subject 
"  Saratoga" — that  being  the  word  selected  for  the  day's 
exercises.  So  at  least  says  the  "  Chaplet  of  Comus." 

*  Epigram  from  the  New  York  Public  Advertiser  of 
December  5th,  1777.  Walpole,  in  his  "Last  Journals," 
II.,  page  159,  says  that  it  was  written  by  Arnold  him 
self,  as  a  parody  of  one  of  Burgoyne's  manifestoes. 

f  This  epigram  is  from  the  London  Evening  Post. 

j  Sir  Guy  Carleton,  by  far  the  ablest  general  and 
most  humane  officer  that  England  ever  sent  out  to  the 
colonies. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  69 

THE  HALCYON  DAYS  OF  OLD  ENGLAND  ; 

OR, 

WISDOM  OF    ADMINISTRATION  DEMON 
STRATED* 

(To  the   tune  of  "  Ye  Medley  of  Mortals:'} 

GIVE  ear  to  my  song,  I'll  now  tell  you  a  story, 
This  is  the  bright  era  of  Old  England's  glory  ; 
And  though  some  may  think  us  in  pitiful  plight, 
I'll  swear  they're  mistaken,  for  matters  go  right ! 

Sing  tantarara,  wise  all,  wise  all, 

Sing  tantarara,  wise  all. 

Let  us  laugh  at  the  cavils  of  weak  silly  elves  ! 
Our   statesmen    are   wise   men  ! — they  say  so   them 
selves  ! 

And  though  little  mortals  may  hear  it  with  wonder, 
'Tis  consummate  wisdom  that  causes  each  blunder  ! 
Sing  tantarara,  etc. 

*  On  December  2d,  1777,  an  express  arrived  in  Lon 
don  from  Carleton  saying  that  he  had  learned  by 
deserters  and  believed  that  the  Provincials  had  taken 
Burgoyne  and  his  whole  army  prisoners.  On  the  i5th 
this  unwelcome  news  was  confirmed  by  Captain  Craig, 
as  Walpole  writes,  "after  great  slaughter  and  desertion 
of  the  Germans."  This  charge  against  Burgoyne's 
German  allies  is  in  the  highest  degree  unjust,  since, 
had  it  not  been  for  them,  it  is  exceedingly  doubtful  if 
Burgoyne  would  have  had  any  army  to  surrender. 
The  Brunswickers,  under  the  brave  Riedesel,  prevented 
the  utter  rout  of  Burgoyne  on  September  iQth,  and 
saved  his  army  from  annihilation  on  October  yth. 
At  the  end  of  December  Walpole  wrote  and  publish 
ed  the  above  ballad.  Walpole's  u  Last  Journals,"  Vol. 
II.,  page  187. 


70  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

They  now  are  conducting  a  glorious  war ! 
(It  began  about  tea,  about  feathers,  and  tar  !) 
With  spirit  they  pushed  what  they  planned  with  sense  ! 
Forty  millions  they've  spent  for  a  tax  of  three  pence  ! 
Sing  tantarara,  etc. 

The  debts  of  the  nation  do  grieve  them  so  sore, 
To  lighten  our  burden — they  load  us  the  more  ! 
They  aim  at  the  American  cash,  my  dear  honey ! 
Yet  beggar  this  kingdom  and  send  them  the  money. 
Sing  tantarara,  etc. 

What  honors  we're  gaining  by  taking  their  forts, 
Destroying  bateaux  and  blocking  up  ports  ; 
Burgoyne  would  have  worked  them — but  for  a  mishap, 
By  Gates  and  one  Arnold  he's  caught  in  a  trap ! 
Sing  tantarara,  etc. 

But  Howe  was  more  cautious  and  prudent  by  far, 
He  sailed  with  his  fleet  up  the  great  Delaware  ; 
All  summer  he  struggled  and  strove  to  undo  them, 
But  the  plague  of  it  was  that  he  could  not  get  to  them. 

Sing  tantarara,  etc. 

Oh,  think  us  not  cruel  because  our  allies 

Are  savagely  scalping  men,  women,  and  boys  ! 

Natural  affection  to  this  step  doth  move  us— 

The  more  they  are  scalped,  the  more  they  will  love  us  ! 

Sing  tantarara,  etc. 

Some  folks  are  uneasy  and  make  a  great  pother, 

For  the  loss  of  one  army  and  half  of  another  ; 

But,  sirs,  next  campaign  by  ten  thousands  we'll  slay 

them, 
If  we  can  but  find  soldiers  and  money  to  pay  them  ! 

Sing  tantarara,  etc. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  71 

I've  sung  you  my  song,  now  I'll  give  you  a  pray'r : 
May  peace  soon  succeed  to  this  horrible  war  ! 
Again  may  we  live  with  our  brethren  in  concord ! 
And  the  authors  of  mischief  all  hang  in  a  strong  cord  ! 

Sing  tantarara,  etc. 


TWO  BURGOYNE  DITTIES. 

I. 

FATHER  and  I  went  down  to  camp, 
Along  with  Captain  Goodwin  ; 
There  we  saw  the  men  and  boys 
As  thick  as  hasty  pudding. 
And  there  we  saw  a  deuced  gun, 
As  big  as  tree  of  maple, 
'Twas  on  a  deuce*d  little  cart, 
A  load  for  father's  cattle ! 

II* 

John  Burgine's  a  mighty  big  man. 
"  Give  me  five  thousand  men,"  says  he, 
"  And  I'll  clean  out  the  rebel  clan  ; 
Give  me  five  thousand  men,"  says  he, 

*  Mr.  Jared  C.  Markham,  in  sending  me  the  above 
ditty,  writes  as  follows :  "  The  enclosed  verses,  as  near 
as  I  can  remember,  were  those  that  my  grandfather, 
Asa  Markham,  used  to  sing  to  me  when  I  was  a 
child,  sixty  years  ago.  Asa  Markham,  a  great-grandson 
of  Daniel  Markham,  who  was  the  first  of  the  family  to 
come  to  the  colonies,  in  1666.  Daniel  Markham  was 
an  own  cousin  to  Major  William  Markham,  the  father 
of  William  Markham,  who  was  archbishop  of  York, 
and  one  of  the  private  council  of  George  III.  (p.  3),  at 


72  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

"  And  we'll  march  the  country  through. 

The  rebels  are  cowards,  you'll  see, 

The  people  are  loyal  and  true." 

The  men  are  raised,  and  on  comes  John, 

With  red-coats  and  Hessians  in  plenty. 

The  Tories  and  Indians  fall  in 

In  regiments  and  battalion, 

And  'mong  them  was  seen  grim  Gov'nor  Skene* 

Upon  his  old  blundering  stallion. 

But  let  them  all  j'ine  and  come  on, 

With  all  their  big  lords  and  ladies, 

And  all  their  gew-gaws  and  laces, 

All  got  with  their  taxes  on  tea, 

And  everything  else  they  can  see. 

Of  the  tax  we  won't  pay  a  penny. 

We  ask  no  "  protection"  of  George, 

And  of  John  we  do  not  expect  any, 

With  all  his  grand  proclamations  ! 

the  time  of  the  American  Revolution.  So,  while 
the  archbishop  was  luxuriating  at  the  British  court, 
and  encouraging  by  his  advice  his  king  to  war  upon 
the  colonies,  his  second  cousin  was  enjoying  the 
freedom  of  colonial  rebellion  and  revolution.  Again, 
a  great-grandson  of  the  archbishop,  Clements  R, 
Markham,  is  now  the  secretary  of  the  Royal  Geo 
graphical  Society  in  London,  while,  on  this  side,  in 
the  United  States,  the  present  writer  is  the  architect 
of  the  Saratoga  Monument — a  structure  which  com 
memorates  the  surrender  of  Burgoyne — an  event 
which  was  the  turning-point  of  the  Revolution." 

*  Governor  Skene  was  always  during  the  Revo 
lution  a  bete  noir.  To  him  were  ascribed  by  the 
settlers  many  of  the  annoyances  and  troubles  of  the 
day.  Hence  this  allusion. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  73 

Of  pardon  and  fine  "  protection," 

He's  'listed  the  whole  Six  Nations 

To  bring  us  into  subjection. 

But  let  the  poor  devils  come  on, 

The  Indians  and  Tories  and  John, 

We'll  learn  them  a  trick  they  don't  know ! 


AN   OLD  VERSE. 

THE  following  specimen  of  ingenious  versification 
was  published  in  a  Philadelphia  paper  while  the  fate 
of  Burgoyne  was  in  doubt.  It  may  be  read  three  dif 
ferent  ways  :  First,  let  the  whole  be  read  in  the  order 
in  which  it  was  written  ;  second,  read  the  lines  down 
ward  on  the  left  of  each  comma  in  every  line ;  third, 
in  the  same  manner  on  the  right  of  each  comma.  In 
the  first  reading  the  Revolutionary  cause  is  condemned, 
arid  by  the  others  it  is  encouraged  and  lauded. 

Hark !    hark !   the  trumpet   sounds,  the  din  of  war's 

alarms, 

O'er  seas  and  solid  grounds,  doth  call  us  all  to  arms  ; 
Who  for  King  George  doth  stand,  their  honors  soon 

shall  shine  ; 

Their  ruin  is  at  hand,  who  with  the  congress  join. 
The  acts  of  parliament,  in  them  I  much  delight, 
I  hate  their  cursed  intent,  who  for  the  congress  fight  ; 
The  Tories  of  to-day,  they  are  my  daily  toast, 
They  soon  will  sneak  away,  who  independence  boast  ; 
Who  non-resistance  hold,  they  have  my  hand  and  heart, 
May  they  for  slaves  be  sold,  who  act  a  Whiggish  part ; 
On  Mansfield,  North  and   Bute,  may  daily  blessings 

pour, 

Confusion  and  dispute,  on  congress  evermore, 
To  North  and  British  lord,  may  honors  still  be  done, 
I  wish  a  block  or  cord,  to  Gen.  Washington. 


74  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

EPITAPH 

On  two  American  officers  who  were  killed  and  scalped 
by  the  Indians  in  the  employ  of  the  British  at  Isle  aux 
Noix,  where  the  tombstone  is  still  to  be  seen  : 

"  Sons  of  America,  rest  in  quiet  here, 
Britannia,  blush,  Burgoyne,  let  fall  a  tear  ; 
And  tremble,  Europe,  sons  with  savage  case  \sic\, 
Death  and  Revenge  await  you  with  disgrace." 


MERZ  KATER. 

[A  BURLESQUE  song  and  popular  air,  which  the 
Brunswick  officers  (captured  at  Saratoga),  in  their 
quarters  at  Bethlehem,  Pa.,  in  1779,  used  to  sing:] 

"  IST  es  nicht  ein  rechter  Scherz 
Wenn  ein  Kater  in  den  Merz 
Auf  den  Dash,  ruft  seiner  Frau 
Und  beshudz  schreyt  Mi-au  !"  * 

'f  This  first  stanza  is  the  only  one  preserved  in  the 
traditions  of  the  captive  "  Convention  troops,"  still 
preserved  among  the  old  inhabitants  of  Bethlehem,  Pa. 

TRANSLATION. 

"  Is  it  not  a  rare  delight, 
When  a  tom-cat  in  the  night, 
On  the  roof  tree  makes  his  bow, 
Calling  to  his  wife,  Mi-au  !" 

ANECDOTE. 

In  August  of  1777,  and  for  a  period  of  ten  months 
thereafter,  the  minister's  house  of  the  Lebanon,  Pa., 
Moravian  congregation  was  the  abode  of  Hessian  pris- 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  75 

TO  THE  RELICS  OF  MY  BRITISH   GREN 
ADIER. 

BY  E.  W.  B.  CANNING.* 

I  HAVE  in  my  possession  a  portion  of  the  skeleton  of 
a  British  officer  of  the  grenadiers,  who  was  killed  in 

oners.  The  pastor  of  the  congregation  has  made  the 
following  entry  in  his  diary,  under  date  of  February 
4th,  1778: 

"  To-day  a  rifleman  from  Ausbach  and  a  corporal 
visited  me.  They  related  that  recently  General  Howe 
had  written  a  letter  to  Washington,  containing  merely 
a  transcript  of  chapter  7  of  the  prophet  Ezekiel,  and 
that  Washington  had  replied  by  an  epistle  embodying 
chapter  4  of  the  Book  of  Baruch." 

Communicated  to  the  author  by  Mr.  John  W.  Jor 
dan,  of  Philadelphia,  Pa. 

*  Edward  W.  B.  Canning,  poet  and  author,  was 
born  in  Gill,  Mass.,  November  8th,  1813;  and  after 
graduating  from  Williams  College  he  taught  school 
in  Western  Virginia,  but  removed  to  Stockbridge, 
where  he  became  principal  of  the  Williams  Academy. 
In  1854  he  founded  a  family  school,  which  he 
continued  until  1858.  He  always  took  great  inter 
est  in  anything  pertaining  to  our  Revolutionary  his 
tory,  especially  that  relating  to  our  border  warfare. 
He  was  mainly  instrumental  in  having  placed  the 
unique  memorial  to  the  Stockbridge  Indians  in  the 
naval  cemetery  of  Stockbridge,  and  also  in  procuring 
the  erection  of  the  monument  which  now  (1893)  marks 
the  site  of  the  fall  of  Colonel  Ephraim  Williams  (the 
founder  of  Williams  College)  at  the  battle  of  Lake 
George,  September,  1755  ;  and  Mr.  Canning's  name  is 


T6  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

the  battle  of  October  5th,  1 777,  which  was  accidentally 
exhumed  in  the  spring  of  1852.  The  skull  has  a  per 
foration  through  the  right  temple,  and  the  bullet  that 
made  it  was  found  inside.  A  portion  of  his  uniform 
-coat  bears  the  color  and  texture  of  the  cloth  and  two 
heavily  gold-plated  buttons,  after  a  burial  of  seventy- 
five  years. — Canning. 

Strange  bivouac,  old  Grenadier, 
Thou  in  my  quiet  study  here, 

Hast  found  at  last ; 
While  I,  who  life's  campaign  began 
When  thou  for  forty  years  hadst  done, 

Patrol  the  past. 

O  had  your  hollow  skull  a  brain, 
Your  bony  mouth  a  tongue  again, 

I  know  full  well 

In  whys  and  ^vheris  and  hows  you'd  find 
A  Yankee  of  the  bluest  kind 

Your  sentinel. 

very  appropriately  inscribed  on  the  monument  as  one 
of  the  originators  of  that  tribute  to  a  most  distin 
guished  man  in  colonial  times.  He  was  also,  until  his 
death,  a  valued  trustee  of  the  Saratoga  Monument 
Association,  and  until  a  few  years  since — when  his 
many  engagements  forced  him  to  resign — its  corre 
sponding  secretary.  During  the  time  that  Mr.  Canning 
held  the  position  of  deputy  naval  officer  of  the  port 
of  New  York,  it  was  the  writer's  good  fortune  to  be 
associated  with  him  ;  during  all  of  which  time  he  was 
constantly  struck  with  his  loving  graciousness  of 
manner,  which,  combined  with  rare  dignity  and  ex 
ecutive  ability,  made  him  not  only  respected  but 
revered.  He  died  August  i2th,  1890. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  77 

I  guess  for  many  an  hour  we'd  join 
In  talk  about  Sir  John  Burgoyne, 

And  the  "  whole  boodle," 
Who  'gan  their  game  of  brag  in  June, 
But  on  one  bright  October  noon 
Laid  pride  and  arms  down  to  the  tune 

Of  "  Yankee  Doodle." 

Just  as  old  Dido  ached  of  old 
To  be  by  brave  /Eneas  told 

Quantus  Achilles — 
Quales" — but  I  can't  write  it  ail- 
So  I  am  prurient  to  recall 
How  once  our  fathers  pounded  small 

King  George's  follies. 

I  long  for  more  about  that  day 
When  Rebels  met  in  grim  array 

The  Regulars: 

When  trumpet  clang  and  plunging  shot 
And  shouting  made  the  battle  hot 

About  their  ears. 

When  Dearborn,*  Poor,f  and  Paterson,J 

*  Major-Gen eral  Henry  Dearborn,  born  in  North 
Hampton,  N.  H.,  February  23d,  1751  ;  died  in  Rox- 
bury,  Mass.,  June  6th,  1829.  He  served  with  bravery 
at  the  battles  of  Bunker  Hill  (where  he  caused  the 
retreat)  and  Saratoga,  and  accompanied  Arnold  in  his 
expedition  to  Canada  in  1775.  He  was  appointed  by 
Jefferson  Secretary  of  War — an  office  he  held  from 
1793  to  1797.  He  was  appointed  senior  major- 
general  in  the  United  States  Army  January  27th, 
1812,  and  assigned  to  the  command  of  the  Northern 
Department.  He  published  an  account  of  the  battle 


78  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

And  Cilley,  Brooks*  and  Livingston, 

With  hearts  of  steel, 
Met  Phillips,  Eraser,  Hamilton, 
Rolling  the  tide  of  slaughter  on, 
And  made  them  reel. 

When  Morgan  and  his  riflemen 
"  Bearded  the  lion  in  his  den," 

And  signed  his  name  ; 
While  Arnold — battle's  thunderbolt- 
Flashed,  like  a  comet  on  a  colt, 

About  the  plain — 

I'd  ask  what  gallant  Fraser  said, 
When  bullet  from  the  tree-top  sped, 


of  Bunker  Hill  and  wrote  a  journal  of  his  expedition 
to  Canada.  He  was  also  a  minister  to  Portugal  from 
1822  to  1824.  Fort  Dearborn  (the  site  of  Chicago, 
111.)  was  named  after  him. 

f  General  Enoch  Poor,  born  in  Andover,  Mass., 
June  2ist,  1736,  died  near  Hackensack,  N.  J.,  Septem 
ber  8th,  1780.  He  served  with  great  distinction 
till  near  the  close  of  the  Revolutionary  War  ;  and  in 
announcing  his  death,  General  Washington  declared 
him  to  be  "  an  officer  of  distinguished  merit,  who  as  a 
citizen  and  a  soldier  had  every  claim  to  the  esteem  of 
his  country." 

%  Major-General  John  Paterson,  distinguished  for 
bravery  and  patriotism  during  Daniel  Shays's  Rebellion 
in  1786,  he  commanded  a  detachment  of  Berkshire 
militia  that  was  ordered  out  to  suppress  the  rising. 
M.  C.  during  1803  to  1805. 

*  Afterward  governor  of  Massachusetts. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  79 

Its  work  had  done : 
How  stout  old  Earl  Balcarras  tore, 
When  Yankees  "true  to  Freedom  swore" 

His  twelve  pound  gun. 

How  many  inches  on  that  day 
The  visage  of  Burgoyne,  I  pray, 

A  lengthening  went  ? 
Didst  hear  him  say — as  once  before — 
That  with  ten  thousand  men — no  more- 
He' d  conquering  walk  from  shore  to  shore 

The  continent  ? 

But  I  forget,  old  Grenadier, 
You  never  lived  yourself,  to  hear 

What  others  said: 
A  luckless  missile  found  you  out, 
And,  killing  instantly  no  doubt, 

It  bored  your  head. 

For  seventy-five  long  years,  old  brave, 

You  occupied  your  shallow  grave- 
No  gun  to  stir  ; 

At  length  by  plough  and  not  by  drum 

Disturbed  your  huge  wreck  has  become 
My  prisoner. 

And  now  I'll  keep  you  guarding  there 
All  of  your  coat  the  mould  could  spare, 

And  darkling  worm  ; 
With  the  gashed  ball  by  which  you  died, 
And  buttons,  too,  that  lit  with  pride 

Your  uniform. 

To  those  infused  with  martial  leaven, 
Of  Bemus's  Heights  in  '77 


80  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

You'll  tell  for  long ; 

Aye — and  perchance  some  bard  may  troll 
From  out  that  ragged  bullet  hole, 

Another  song. 


BURGOYNE'S  DEFEAT. 

AN  ANCIENT  DITTY. 

COME,   all   you   valiant  soldiers   that's  courage  stout 

and  bold, 
Who  scorn  as  long  as  life  doth  last,  ever  to  be  con- 

troll'd  ; 

Come  listen  to  my  ditty,  and  the  truth  to  you  I'll  tell, 
Concerning  many  a  soldier,  who  for  his  country  fell. 

Brave  General  Burgoyne  from  Canada  set  sail, 
'Twas  with  eight  thousand  regulars,  he  thought  would 

never  fail ; 

With  Hessians,  Canadians  and  Tories,  as  we  hear, 
Beside  a  fleet  of  shipping,  o'er  Lake  Champlain  did 

steer. 

Before  Ticonderoga,  the  first  day  of  July, 

Their  fleet  and  army  did  appear,   and  we  did  them 

espy ; 
Their  motions  we  observed  full  well  both  night  and 

day, 
And  our  brave  boys  prepared  all  for  the  bloody  fray. 

Our  garrison  they  viewed,  and  soon  their  troops  did 

land  ; 

When  General  St.  Clair,  he  came  to  understand, 
That   the   great    Mount    Defiance   they   soon  would 

fortify, 
He  found  that  he  must  quit  his  lines,  or  every  man 

must  die. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  81 

July  the  fourth  we  had  orders  to  retreat, 

And  the  next  morning  left  our  fort,  Burgoyne  he  tho't 

us  beat ; 

So  closely  they  pursued  us,  'twas  nigh  to  Hubbarton ; 
Our   rear   guard    they'd    defeated,   they    tho't   they'd 

gain'd  renown. 

And  when  our  congress    came  to  hear   that  we  our 

lines  had  left, 

And  had  retreated  near  to  Albany  to  rest, 
Brave  Gen.  Gates  they  sent  us  our  country  to  relieve, 
With  shouts  of  acclamation  of  joy  we  him  receiv'd. 

Burgoyne  sent  out  a  party  of  fifteen  hundred  men, 
Of  Hessians  and  Canadians,  came  near  to  Benning- 

ton, 

With  savages  and  Tories,  our  cattle  for  to  steal, 
Commanded  by  a  Tory,  they  call'd  him  Col.  Skein. 

And  when  brave  Gates  came  to  hear  of  Col.  Skein's 

conduct, 

Sent  out  a  small  party,  his  march  for  to  obstruct ; 
They  took  all  his  artillery,   and  Skein  his  flight  may 

mourn, 
'Twas  out  of  fifteen  hundred  men  but  four  hundred 

return'd. 

And  when  Burgoyne  he  came  to  hear  that  Skein  did 

not  succeed, 

With  his  army  and  artillery  Burgoyne  he  did  proceed, 
Thinking  therefore  to  frighten  us  and  make  us  fly ; 
But  soon    he  found  out  his  mistake,  he  found  we'd 
sooner  die. 

July  the  fourteenth,  that  morning  being  clear, 
Brave   Gates  unto    his   men  did  say,  my  boys  be  of 
good  cheer, 


82  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

For    Burgoyne,    my    lads,  is  advancing,  and  we  will 

never  fly, 
To  maintain  our  country's  rights,  we'll  fight  until  we 

die. 

And    soon  the  news  was    brought  us   their   army,  it 

was  near; 
And  then,  my  boys,  we  met  them,  'twas  without  dread 

or  fear, 
And    'twas   nigh    unto    Stillwater,   and    there    about 

noon-day, 
And  quick    as  you  shall   hear,    my   boys,  began  the 

bloody  fray. 

We  fought  them  full  six   hours,  like  valiant  hearts  of 

gold, 
Each  party  scorning  to  give  way,  we  fought  like  lions 

bold, 
Until  the  leaves  with  blood  are  stained ;  our  generals 

they  did  cry ; 
It's  diamonds  cut  diamonds,  we'll  fight  until  we  die. 

Night  came  on,  from  our  lines  we  did  retreat, 

Which  made  the  Britons  for  to  think  our  army  it  was 

beat ; 

But  early  the  next  morning,  we  held  before  their  eyes, 
As   ready   to  engage  again,   which    did    them    much 

surprise. 

Of  fighting   they  seemed  tired,  to   work    they   then 

did  go, 
In  burying  of  their  dead  men,  entrenchments  up  did 

throw ; 
Thinking  therefore  with  shot  and  shell  our  army  to 

destroy, 
But  brave  Gates  he  gave  such  orders,  he  did   them 

all  defy ! 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  S3 

At    length    our   gracious    Lord    inspired    our   noble 

Gates'  mind, 
To  send  out  Gen.  Arnold,*  to  see  if  he  could  find 

*A  bitter  controversy  has  been  carried  on  for  the 
last   few   years   as    to  whether   General  Arnold   was 
an    actual    participant   in    the    battle   of    September 
1 9th.     After  carefully  weighing  the  arguments  brought 
forward  on  both  sides,  I  believe  this  to  be  the  fact— 
viz.,   that  while  Arnold  may   not  have   been    during 
the  action  itself  actually  on  the  battle-field  in  person 
(though  this,  even,  is  by  no  means  proved),  yet  he  was 
during  the  entire  action  close  at  hand,  superintending 
and  directing,    under  his  own  immediate  eye,  every 
manoeuvre    of  the    different   regiments,  thus   causing 
them  to  act  as  one  harmonious  whole.     Hence,  that 
in  this  sense  he  was  a  virtual  and  an  active  partici 
pant  in  the  battle  of  the  iQth  admits  of  no  manner 
of  doubt.    Wilkinson,  the  only  original  authority  on  the 
American  side  who  deprives  Arnold  of  the  credit  of 
the  success  of  the  action,  and  who  was,  also,  doubtless, 
the   "informant"   of  Gordon    &  Marshall,    is  entirely 
worthless  and  unreliable  in  all  his  statements  whenever 
his  jealousy  (as   in  this  case)  is  aroused,    and  hence 
should  not  for  a  moment  be  believed  in   this  matter 
against   the    concurrent    testimony   of  many    of  the 
survivors  of  that  action,  who,  after  death,  left  on  record 
the  statement  that  Arnold  was  an  active  participant 
in  the  battle.     Among  these  is  an   order  of  General 
Riedesel,    first    given    to    the    public    in    Hadden's 
"Journal    and    Orderly    Book"    (edited    by   General 
Rogers),  upon   which    the    editor   comments    as  fol 
lows:  "  Now,  how  Arnold  could  have  observed  these 
things  on  the  part  of  his  troops  when,  according  to 
Wilkinson,  he  was  'calmly  sitting  on  his  horse  a  mile 


84  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

A  passage  thro'  the  enemy,  and  make  them  for  to  flee : 
Which  quickly  he  obtained,  and  set  his  country  free. 

and  a  half  away  from  the  action,  it  is  very  difficult  to 
understand!'  Steadman,  a  most  reliable  authority 
also,  states  the  fact  that  Arnold  was  in  the  action. 
But  besides  all  this,  the  following,  from  an  Orderly 
Book  kept  by  Colonel  Thaddeus  Cook,  of  Walling- 
ford,  Conn.,  now  in  possession  of  the  American  Anti 
quarian  Society  of  Worcester,  Mass.,  should  set  the 
matter  beyond  all  doubt,  even  to  professional  carpers 
and  cavillers.  Here  it  is  : 

"  Division  Orders,  2oth  Sept.,  A.D.  1777.  Genl. 
Arnold  returns  his  thanks  to  the  officers  and  soldiers 
of  his  division  for  their  brave,  spirited  conduct  yester 
day,  in  withstanding  the  force  of  the  whole  British 
Army,  whose  loss  a  Deserter  from  their  army  says  is 
upward  of  one  thousand  men  killed  and  wounded — 
while  ours  is  very  trifling,  not  one  fourth  Part  of  the 
enemies — a  convincing  proof  of  the  mercifull  Inter 
position  of  Heaven  in  covering  our  heads  in  the  day 
of  Battle,  and  loudly  calls  for  our  gratefull  acknowledge 
ments. 

"  The  Genl.  observed  yesterday  that  two  many  offi 
cers  that  zeal  and  spirit  pushed  on  in  the  front  of 
their  companies,  whose  business  it  was  to  have  brought 
up  those  in  the  rear,  and  hopes  they  will  in  future  ob 
serve  their  proper  stations  and  suffer  no  man  to  retreat 
until  an  order  is  given  by  the  Commanding  Officer  of 
the  Regts.  on  Detachments — those  who  are  found  to 
have  deserted  their  posts  in  time  of  Action  may  ex 
pect  Instant  Death. — 

"The  Genl.  makes  no  doubt  the  Troops  will  act  with 
a  spirit  and  firmness  becoming  free  men  strugling  for 
their  just  Rights  and  Liberties  when  they  are  called  out 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  85 

And   burning  all  their  baggage,  made  off  with  haste 

and  fear, 

And  up  to  Saratoga,  Burgoyne  himself  did  steer ; 
Brave  Gates,  our  bold  commander,  he  after  him  did 

fly- 

Resolving  for   to  take  them  all  or  every  man  must 
die. 

And  soon  we  overtook  them,  it  was  nigh  to  Saratoga, 
A  burning  all  the  buildings  as  they  went  on  the  road. 
'Twas  the    i/th    of  October,   they   were   obliged   to 

capitulate, 
Burgoyne    and    his    army,   our   prisoners   they    were 

made. 

Now  to  conclude  my  ditty,  my  song  is  at  an  end ; 

I   hope  no  brave  American  will  slight  what  I   have 

penn'd, 
For  our  cause  is  just,  in  God  we  trust,  therefore,  my 

boys,  don't  fear, 
For  brave  Gates  will  clear  America  in  less  than  one 

more  year. 

Now  here's  a  health  to  congress,  and  our  commander 

Gates, 

To  officers  and  soldiers,  whom  all  the  Tories  hate, 
God  prosper  and  succeed  them,  it's  both  by  land  and 

sea, 
Success  to  the  brave  Americans  and  sons  of  liberty. 


again,   which    they   may   expect  every  moment,  and 
wishes  them  to  make  every  necessary  preparation." 

Now,  how,  in  the  face  of  this  order,  any  one  can  say 
that  Arnold  was  not  an  active  participator  in  the  action 
of  the  i  Qth  passes  comprehension. 


86  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

THE  NORTH  CAMPAIGN.* 

A  SONG  OF  SARATOGA. 

COME  unto  me,  ye  heroes, 

Whose  hearts  are  true  and  bold, 
Who  value  more  your  honor 

Than  others  do  their  gold  ; 
Give  ear  unto  my  story, 

And  I  the  truth  will  tell 
Concerning  many  a  soldier 

Who  for  his  country  fell. 

Burgoyne,  the  king's  commander, 

From  Canada  set  sail 
With  full  eight  thousand  reg'lars, 

He  thought  he  could  not  fail ; 
With  Indians  and  Canadians, 

And  his  cursed  tory  crew, 
On  board  his  fleet  of  shipping 

He  up  the  Champlain  flew. 

Before  Ticonderoga, 

The  first  day  of  July, 
Appeared  his  ships  and  army, 

And  we  did  them  espy. 

*This  ballad  was  known  during  the  Revolution  as 
"  The  North  Campaign,"  '<  Gates's  Song,"  and  "A  Song 
for  the  Red-coats,"  and  was  for  a  long  period  sung 
throughout  New  England.  It  has  been  attributed  to 
a  private  in  Colonel  Brooks' s  regiment  and  also  to 
the  author  of  "American  Taxation."  A  portion  of  it  is 
changed  somewhat  by  the  "  wagoner'  of  Dr.  Dwight's 
story.  It  would  seem,  however,  that  this  is  a  mere 
paraphrase  of  "  An  Ancient  Ditty,"  also  published  in 
this  connection,  though  under  a  different  title. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  87 

Their  motions  we  observed 
Full  well  both  night  and  day, 

And  our  brave  boys  prepared 
To  have  a  bloody  fray. 

Our  garrison  they  viewed  them, 

As  straight  their  troops  did  land, 
And  when  St.  Clair,  our  chieftain, 

The  fact  did  understand 
That  they  the  Mount  Defiance 

Were  bent  to  fortify, 
He  found  we  must  surrender, 

Or  else  prepare  to  die. 

The  fifth  day  of  July,  then, 
He  order'd  a  retreat,* 

*  The  semi-criticism  here  is  most  just.  St.  Clair, 
although  a  true  patriot,  erred  most  amazingly  in  not 
having  Mount  Defiance,  or  Sugar-Loaf  Hill — as  it  was 
also  called,  from  its  resemblance  to  the  old-fashioned 
loaves  of  sugar — fortified.  Especially,  too,  was  he  great 
ly  blameworthy  from  the  fact  that  the  great  importance 
of  fortifying  it  had  been  long  previously  pointed  out. 
Originally  it  had  been  supposed,  and,  in  fact,  had  been 
taken  for  granted,  that  the  crest  of  Sugar-Loaf  Hill 
was  not  only  inaccessible,  but  too  distant  to  be  of  any 
avail  in  covering  the  main  fortress — i.e.,  Fort  Ticonder- 
oga.  This  opinion  was,  as  said,  an  error,  to  which 
the  attention  of  the  officers  stationed  at  Ticonderoga 
had  been  called  the  preceding  year  by  Colonel  John 
Trumbull,  then  adjutant-general  for  the  Northern 
Department.  When  Colonel  Trumbull  made  the 
suggestion,  he  was  laughed  at  by  the  mess ;  but  he 
soon  proved  the  accuracy  of  his  own  vision  by  throw 
ing  a  cannon-shot  to  the  summit,  and  subsequently 


88  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

And  when  next  morn  we  started, 
Burgoyne  thought  we  were  beat. 

And  closely  he  pursued  us, 
Till  when  near  Hubbardton, 

Our  rear  guards  were  defeated, 
He  thought  the  country  won. 

And  when  it  was  told  in  Congress, 

That  we  our  forts  had  left, 
To  Albany  retreated, 

Of  all  the  North  bereft, 
Brave  General  Gates  they  sent  us, 

Our  fortunes  to  retrieve, 
And  him  with  shouts  of  gladness 

The  army  did  receive.* 

clambered  to  the  top,  dragging  a  cannon  after  him, 
accompanied  by  Colonels  Stevens,  Wane,  and  Arnold. 
It  was,  in  fact,  a  criminal  neglect  on  the  part  of  St. 
Clair,  that  the  oversight  was  not  at  once  corrected  by 
the  construction  of  a  work  upon  that  point,  which 
would  have  commanded  both  the  whole  post  and  the 
surrounding  country.  St.  Clair  was  tried  afterward 
by  a  court-martial  for  evacuating  Ticonderoga,  but  he 
was  acquitted  more  on  account  of  his  tried  patriotism 
than  of  his  skilful  management.  Schuyler,  also,  had 
seen  the  necessity  of  occupying  Mount  Defiance,  and 
had  urgently  requested  from  Congress  re-enforcements 
for  that  purpose. — Conversations  of  the  Author s 
Father  with  Colonel  John  TrumbulL 

*  In  allusion  to  the  fact  that  General  Schuyler  was 
most  unjustly  held  in  great  odium  by  the  New 
England  troops — a  fact  which  was  the  cause  of  his 
being  superseded  by  Gates  in  the  command,  leaving 
Gates  to  reap  the  fruits  of  what  Schuyler  had,  by  his 


The  JBurgoyne  Ballads.  89 

Where  first  the  Mohawk's  waters 

Do  in  the  sunshine  play, 
For  Herkimer's  brave  soldiers 

Sellinger*  ambush'd  lay  : 
And  them  he  there  defeated, 

But  soon  he  had  his  due, 
And  scaredf  by  Brooks  and  Arnold 

He  to  the  North  withdrew. 

To  take  the  stores  and  cattle 

That  we  had  gathered  then, 
Burgoyne  sent  a  detachment 

Of  fifteen  hundred  men  ; 

wonderful  generalship,  sown.  The  cause  is  not  far  to 
seek.  Schuyler  was  a  strict  disciplinarian,  and  per 
haps  a  little  too  autocratic  and  unapproachable  by  his 
privates.  This  manner  the  New  Englanders  greatly 
resented  ;  and  in  Gates,  who,  for  motives  of  his  own— 
which  were  to  supplant  even  Washington  himself — they 
found  a  person  to  listen  to  all  their  grievances.  Hence 
Schuyler  was  most  unjustly  superseded,  chiefly  by 
the  contemptible  jealousy  of  Adams  and  other  New 
Englanders  in  Congress.  The  same  feeling  of  New 
England  jealousy  against  the  soldiers  of  New  York 
and  the  South  had,  however,  found  expression  years 
before  during  the  campaign,  in  1755,  of  Sir  William 
Johnson  against  Dieskau.  This  contemptible  jealousy 
had  then  been  very  nearly  the  cause  of  defeat. 

*  St.  Leger. 

f  A  man  employed  by  the  British  as  a  spy  was 
taken  by  Arnold,  and  at  the  suggestion  of  Colonel 
Brooks  sent  back  to  St.  Leger  with  such  deceptive 
accounts  of  the  strength  of  the  Americans  as  induced 
him  to  retreat  toward  Montreal. 


90  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

By  Baum  they  were  commanded, 
To  Bennington  they  went ; 

To  plunder  and  to  murder 
Was  fully  their  intent. 

But  little  did  they  know  then 

With  whom  they  had  to  deal ; 
It  was  not  quite  so  easy 

Our  stores  and  stock  to  steal ; 
Bold  Stark  would  give  them  only 

A  portion  of  his  lead : 
With  half  his  crew  ere  sunset 

Baum  lay  among  the  dead. 

The  nineteenth  of  September, 

The  morning  cool  and  clear, 
Brave  Gates  rode  through  our  army, 

Each  soldier's  heart  to  cheer : 
"Burgoyne,"  he  cried,  "advances, 

But  we  will  never  fly  ; 
No — rather  than  surrender, 

We'll  fight  him  till  we  die." 

The  news  was  quickly  brought  us, 

The  enemy  was  near, 
And  all  along  our  lines  then 

There  was  no  sign  of  fear; 
It  was  above  Stillwater 

We  met  at  noon  that  day, 
And  every  one  expected 

To  see  a  bloody  fray. 

Six  hours  the  battle  lasted, 
Each  heart  was  true  as  gold, 

The  British  fought  like  lions, 
And  we  like  Yankees  bold  : 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  91 

The  leaves  with  blood  were  crimson, 
And  then  brave  Gates  did  cry — 

"  Tis  diamond  now  cut  diamond  ! 
We'll  beat  them,  boys,  or  die."* 

The  darkness  soon  approaching, 

It  forced  us  to  retreat 
Into  our  lines  till  morning, 

Which  made  them  think  us  beat ; 
But  ere  the  sun  was  risen, 

They  saw  before  their  eyes 
Us  ready  to  engage  them, 

Which  did  them  much  surprise. 

Of  fighting  they  seem'd  weary, 

Therefore  to  work  they  go 
Their  thousand  dead  to  bury, 

And  breastworks  up  to  throw  : 
With  grape  and  bombs  intending 

Our  army  to  destroy, 
Or  from  our  works  our  forces 

By  stratagem  decoy. 

The  seventh  day  of  October 

The  British  tried  again, 
Shells  from  their  cannon  throwing, 

Which  fell  on  us  like  rain, 
To  drive  us  from  our  stations 

That  they  might  thus  retreat ; 
For  now  Burgoyne  saw  plainly 

He  never  us  could  beat. 

*  This  of  course  is  "  bosh,"  or,  perhaps,  we  may 
charitably  call  it  "  poetical  license, "  as  Gates  acted  in 
both  actions  the  roll  of  a  coward.  See  my  "  Bur- 
goyne's  Campaign." 


92  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

But  vain  was  his  endeavor 

Our  men  to  terrify ; 
Though  death  was  all  around  us, 

Not  one  of  us  would  fly. 
But  when  an  hour  we'd  fought  them, 

And  they  began  to  yield, 
Along  our  lines  the  cry  ran, 

"  The  next  blow  wins  the  field." 

Great  God  who  won  their  battles, 

Whose  cause  is  just  and  true, 
Inspired  our  bold  commander 

The  course  he  should  pursue. 
He  order' d  Arnold  forward, 

And  Brooks*  to  follow  on ; 
The  enemy  were  routed, 

Our  liberty  was  won  ! 

Then,  burning  all  their  luggage, 

They  fled  with  haste  and  fear, 
Burgoyne  with  all  his  forces 

To  Saratogue  did  steer  ; 
And  Gates  our  brave  commander, 

Soon  after  him  did  hie, 
Resolving  he  would  take  them 

Or  in  the  effort  die. 


*John  Brooks,  governor  of  Massachusetts,  born  in 
Medford,  Mass.,  May  31  st,  1752  ;  died  March  ist,  1825. 
He  assisted  in  fortifying  Breed's  Hill.  In  the  second 
battle  of  Saratoga,  on  October  7th,  he  stormed  and 
carried  the  German  intrenchments  at  the  head  of 
his  regiment.  He  greatly  assisted  Baron  Steuben  in 
his  tactics,  and  was  a  very  valued  officer  of  the  Revo 
lution. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  93 

As  we  came  nigh  the  village, 

We  overtook  the  foe ; 
They'd  burned  each  house  to  ashes, 

Like  all  where'er  they  go. 
The  seventeenth  of  October, 

They  did  capitulate ; 
Burgoyne  and  his  proud  army 

Did  we  our  pris'ners  make. 

Now  here's  a  health  to  Arnold, 

And  our  commander  Gates  ; 
To  Lincoln*  and  to  Washington, 

Whom  ev'ry  Tory  hates ; 
Likewise  unto  our  Congress, 

God  grant  it  long  to  reign, 
Our  Country,  Right  and  Justice 

For  ever  to  maintain. 

Now  finish'd  is  my  story, 

My  song  is  at  end  ; 
The  freedom  we're  enjoying 

We're  ready  to  defend  ; 
For  while  our  cause  is  righteous, 

Heaven  nerves  the  soldier's  arm, 
And  vain  is  their  endeavor 

Who  strive  to  do  us  harm. 


THE  CARPET  KNIGHT. 

BY  JOSEPH  STANSBURY.f 

LATE  a  council  of  gods  from  their  heavenly  abodes 
Were  call'd  on  Olympus  to  meet ; 

*  General  Lincoln  behaved  bravely  in  this  battle ; 
and  to  him  is  due  the  credit  of  creating  a  diversion  in 
favor  of  Gates  by  his  assault  on  Ticonderoga. 

fjoseph  Stansbury,  merchant,  born  in  England  in 


94:  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Jove   gave  his    commands   from    his    throne   in    the 
clouds  : 

Attend,  and  his  words  I'll  repeat. 
Ye  know,  all  ye  pow'rs  that  attend  my  high  throne, 

Your  will  to  my  pleasure  must  bow  ; 
I  will  that  those  gifts  which  you  prize  as  your  own 

Shall  now  be  bestowed  on  my  Howe. 

Astrcea,  who  long  since  had  quitted  the  earth, 

Presented  her  balance  and  sword  ; 
The  honors  derived  from  titles  and  birth 

By  Juno  were  instant  conferred ; 

1750;  died  in  New  York  City  in  1809.  Emigrating 
to  Philadelphia,  he  became  an  importing  merchant,  and 
held  a  high  position  as  a  man  of  integrity  and  an  up 
right  and  high-minded  citizen.  In  1776  he  was  im 
prisoned  in  Burlington,  N.  J.,  for  having  sung  in  his 
house  "God  Save  the  King."  He  was  again,  in  1780, 
imprisoned  by  the  Whigs  in  Philadelphia.  Upon  his 
liberation  his  property  was  restored,  and  with  his  family 
he  resided  in  New  York  during  the  remainder  of  the 
war,  but  returned  to  Philadelphia  in  1785,  after  a  brief 
residence  in  Nova  Scotia.  Threatened  again  in  that  city 
with  violence,  he  gave  up  his  former  occupation  and, 
removing  to  New  York,  became  secretary  of  an  insur 
ance  company.  He  wrote  in  support  of  the  crown, 
and  his  verses  were  edited  by  Winthrop  Sargent, 
under  the  title  of  "  Stansbury's  and  Odell's  Loyal 
Verses"  (Munsell,  Albany,  1860) — verses  which  at  the 
time  they  were  first  written  obtained  considerable 
popularity  among  the  adherents  of  the  crown.  The 
date  of  this  song,  says  Mr.  Sargent,  seems  to  be  De 
cember  24th,  1777,  shortly  after  Howe's  returii  to 
Philadelphia,  from  his  idle  attempt  to  surprise  Wash 
ington's  army  at  Whitemarsh. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  95 

Fierce  Mars  gave  his  chariot ;  gay  Hermes  his  wand  ; 

A  Icicles,  his  club  and  his  bow  ; 
Sweet  Peace  with  her  olive-branch  graced  his  hand  ; 

And  Venus  herself  did  bestow. 

Thus  enrich'd  with  such  gifts  as  the  gods  can  impart 

The  hero  by  Jove  was  address'd  ; 
As  you  wish  to  reclaim  each  American  heart, 

Let  justice  preside  in  your  breast ; 
Exhibit  the  blessings  of  order  and  peace 

As  wide  as  your  conquests  shall  spread  ; 
Let  your  promise  be  sacred — rebellion  shall  cease, 

And  the  laurel  shall  bloom  round  your  head. 

I  know  that  fell  Discord,  your  zeal  to  oppose, 

Will  nourish  Sedition  and  Hate  ; 
Mistakes  may  occur,  and  friends  suffer  with  foes ; 

Yet  your  wish  is  confirmed  by  fate. 
Sweet  Peace  shall  revive  from  the  horrors  of  war, 

Her  empire  again  be  restor'd  ; 
Affection  and  duty  shall  cover  each  scar, 

And  Howe  by  the  world  be  ador'd  ! 

Now  with  shame  must  the  muse  the  sad  sequel  display ; 

With  sorrow,  and  shame,  and  surprise  : 
The  gifts  of  Astrcza  he  lost  by  the  way, 

And  her  fillet  he  plac'd  o'er  his  eyes. 
The  arms  of  Alcides  he  sent  to  Burgoyne, 

And  with  them  the  chariot  of  Mars  ; 
For  what  but  assistance  and  weapons  divine 

Could  finish  such  Quixotic  wars  ? 

Hermes    wand  was   now  useless  ;  no   snakes    would 
unite  ;* 

*  Perhaps  in  allusion  to  the  broken  snake,  with  the 
motto  "  Unite  or  die,"  so  much  in  vogue  at  the  time 


96  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

The  olive  in  vain  was  display'd  ; 
For  blessings  no  longer  attended  the  fight, 
And  loyalty  tied  from  its  shade. 


as  a  patriotic  device.  John  Holt,  editor  of  the  New 
York  Journal  or  General  Advertiser,  a  stanch  friend 
of  the  Whigs  in  1774,  discarded  the  king's  arms  from 
the  title  of  his  paper,  and  substituted  in  place  of  it  a 
serpent,  cut  in  pieces,  with  the  expressive  motto, 
"Unite  or  die."  In  January,  1775,  the  snake  was 
united  and  coiled,  with  the  tail  in  his  mouth,  forming  a 
double  ring.  On  the  body  of  the  snake,  beginning  at 
the  head,  were  the  following  lines : 

"  United  now,  alive  and  free, 
Firm  on  this  basis  Liberty  shall  stand  ; 
And  thus  supported  ever  bless  our  land 
Till  time  becomes  eternity." 

The  designs  both  of  1774  and  1775  were  excellent 
—the  first,  by  a  visible  illustration,  showing  the  dis 
jointed  state  of  the  colonies,  and  the  second  present 
ing  an  emblem  of  their  strength  when  united.  Holt 
maintained  his  integrity  to  the  last.  When  the  British 
took  possession  of  New  York,  he  removed  to  JEsopus 
(now  Kingston,  N.  Y.)  and  revived  his  paper.  On  the 
burning  of  that  village  by  the  British,  in  1777,  he  re 
moved  to  Poughkeepsie,  and  published  the  journal 
there  until  the  peace  of  1783,  when  he  returned  to  New 
York.  Holt  was  an  unflinching  patriot — very  dif 
ferent  in  this  respect  from  his  contemporary  editor, 
James  Rivington,  who  turned  his  coat  to  suit  every 
change  of  mind,  but  did  not  long  survive  the  achieve 
ment  of  his  country's  freedom,  having  fallen  a  victim 
to  the  yellow  fever  in  1798. 


The  Buryoyne  Ballads.  97 

The  gifts  sent  to  Burgoyne  return'd  to  the  skies — 

Despairing  he  yielded  his  arms ; 
And  fair  Venus,  disgusted,  beheld  with  surprise 

A  mortal  preferr'd  to  her  charms.*"* 


THE  CHURCH  AND  KING  CLUB.f 
BY  JOSEPH  STANSBURY. 

COME,  honest  Tories,  a  truce  with  your  politics ; 

Hoc  age  tells  you  in  Latin  as  much  ; 
Drink  and  be  merry  and — a  melancholy,  nix  ! 

'Tis  de  same  ting,  do  I  speaks  it  in  Dutch. 

*  The  mortal  whose  charms  were  preferred,  accord 
ing  to  the  song,  to  those  of  Venus  herself,  was  probably 
a  married  lady  from  Jamaica  Plains,  near  Boston,  who 
is  named  in  the  same  connection,  but  in  rather  broader 
phrase,  by  Francis  Hopkinson,  in  his  "  Battle  of  the 
Kegs."  _ 

f  Written  by  Stansbury,  apparently  in  the  latter  part 
of  1778,  for  a  festive  meeting  of  a  loyal  association. 
Such  associations  as  the  Church  and  King  Club, 
says  Mr.  Sargent,  were  not  of  unusual  occurrence 
with  the  Loyalists.  They  were  generally  designed  to 
bring  together  at  the  festive  board  a  party  of  men 
whose  political  sentiments  were  in  unison — similar,  in 
fact,  to  the  Union  League  Club  (Republican)  and 
the  Manhattan  (Democratic)  of  New  York  City. 
In  this  instance,  the  members  were  probably  Philadel- 
phians,  who  had  followed  the  royal  standard  to  New 
York.  The  phrase,  "  Tis  all  the  same  in  Dutch,"  was 
probably  a  local  expression  arising  from  the  numbers 
of  German  settlers  in  Pennsylvania. 


98  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

If  old  Diogenes  lov'd  altercation, 

Had  he,  sir,  a  drop  of  good  wine  in  his  tub  ? 

Mirth  and  good  humor  is  our  occupation  ; 

Let  this  be  the  rule  of  the  Church  and  King  Club. 

Well  do  we  know  the  Adelphi's  miscarriages, 
And  the  disasters  of  Johnny  Burgoyne; 

As  to  beefsteaks,  no  good  fellow  disparages 
One  who  in  battles  finds  leisure  to  dine? 

Congo  pretends  (O  good  Lord,  what  a  fibber  'tis !) 
Now  to  feel  bold,  and  to  fear  no  mischance ; 

As  well  might  he  say  that  he  fights  for  their  liberties 
Whom  he  hath  sold  in  a  mortgage  to  France  !f 

*  This  is  undoubtedly  in  allusion  both  to  Burgoyne 
supping  merrily  with  his  mistress  just  before  his  sur 
render  and  while  his  army  were  in  great  distress  for 
food  (see  Stone's  "  Memoirs  of  Mrs.  General  Riedesel," 
Munsell,  Albany,  N.  Y.),  and  to  his  dinner  with  General 
Gates  immediately  after  the  capitulation. 

f  It  was  frequently  declared  at  this  period  by  the 
advocates  of  England  that  the  American  Congress 
had  given  secretly  some  sort  of  a  lien  upon  a  part  of 
the  American  territories  to  France,  as  a  security  for 
the  assistance  afforded  us  by  that  power.  There  was 
probably  no  truth  in  this  report,  though  this  cannot 
be  said  positively,  in  view  of  the  fact  that  documents 
are  yet  unquestionably  to  be  discovered  in  the  French 
archives.  The  exultations  of  the  Americans,  and  of  Con 
gress  in  particular,  were,  however,  naturally  and  justi 
fiably,  as  after  events  proved,  very  great  at  the  prospects 
of  the  results  to  flow  from  the  alliance  with  France 
whicht  he  Confederation  had  now  entered  into.  The 
first  anniversary  of  the  day  on  which  the  treaty  was 
signed  was  celebrated  by  a  banquet  given  by  Congress 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  99 

Soon  shall  you  see  a  rebellious  minority 
Blush  for  the  part  they  have  acted  so  long ; 

Britain  shall  rouse  and  regain  her  authority ; 
Come  then,  a  bumper  and  call  t'other  song. 

If  old  Diogenes  lov'd  altercation,  etc. 


SATIRICAL  VERSES   IN    HONOR  OF   SIR 
JOHN    BURGOYNE.* 

PATENTE  DE  LORD-DUG  POUR  JOHN  BURGOYNE. 

Nous,  le  Parlement  d'Angleterre, 
Souverain  par  mer  and  par  terre 
D'Empereurs,  Rois  and  Potentats, 
Corsaires,  insulaires,  and  soubas, 
A  tous  Rois,  Etats  monarchiques 
Margraves,  Electeurs,  R£publiques 

to  the  French  minister,  at  which  the  King  and  Queen 
of  France,  the  King  of  Spain  and  all  the  princes  of 
the  House  of  Bourbon  were  formally  toasted  amid 
salvos  of  artillery.  On  May  8th,  1778,  Congress  had 
issued  an  address  to  the  people,  in  which  the  certainty 
of  victory  over  England  was  proclaimed,  and  a  vivid 
picture  given  of  the  prosperity  which  would  then 
attend  the  destinies  of  the  United  States — a  picture,  as 
the  result  proved,not  overdrawn. 

*  Extract  from  "  Correspondance  secrete  politique 
et  litteraire  ou  memoires  pour  servir  &  Thistoire  des 
cours,  des  society's  et  de  la  literature  en  France,  depuis 
la  mort  de  Louis  XV.  Tome  Cinquieme,  pp.  51-53. 

This  work,  "Correspondance  secrete,"  according  to 
Barbier,  "  Dictionnaire  des  ouvrages  anonymes,"  was 
edited  by  Metra  and  others. 


100  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Salut  N'ayant  rien  plus  &  coeur 

§ue  de  combler  de  biens,  d'honneur, 
ous  ceux  qui  par  action  belle, 
Se  couvrent  de  gloire  immortelle, 
Ayant  a  toutes  bonnes  fins 
Examine*  tous  les  bultins 
Qui  sont  venus  de  I'Ame'rique 
Et  autres  lieux  rimans  en  ique  : 
Ayant  enfin  oui  le  rapport 
Pre'sente  par  Suffolk  and  Nort 
Sur  les  hauts  faits  de  Jean  Burgoyne 
Voulons  que  ce  grand  Capitaine 
Dont  on  veut  denigrer  le  nom, 
En  le  traitant  de  fanfaron, 
Soit  accorde*  toute  justice  ; 
Et  pour  confondre  la  malice 
De  Burke  and  Pitt  ses  ennemis 
Et  d'autres  tortueux  esprits ; 
Mandons  a  notre  secretaire 
D'expe*dier  en  beau  caractere 
A  ce  General  fameux 
Brevets  and  titres  glorieux 
Pour  re*tablir  sa  renommee 
Fort  injustement  attaquee 
En  maints  lieux  and  pays  divers 
Tant  de*ga  que  dela  les  mers. 

A  ces  causes,  par  ces  pre*sentes 
Authentiques  lettres-patentes  ; 
Nous  and  le  Roi,  nous  le  nommons 
Due  and  Milord  de  Bennington  : 
Permettons  qu'en  ses  armoiries 
Pour  supports  soient  deux  batteries 
Des  canons  qu'  a  Saratoga 
Ce  ge*n£ral  abandonna. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  101 

En  faisant  si  belle  retraite, 

Quand  son  armee  fut  defaite 

Par  ces  insurgens,  ces  poltrons 

Et  ces  Frangois  vrais  fanfarons 

Qui  n'auront  jamais  en  partage 

De  nos  Allemands  le  courage, 

N'en  de"plaise  au  comte  Turpin 

Qui  Fun  de  nous,  provoque  en  vain  .  .  . 

Ayant  le  tout  considere* 

Et  murement  delibere* 

Avons,  sous  le  grand  sceau  de  cire 

Et  le  cachet  de  notre  Sire, 

Expedie  le  present  brevet 

De  Due  Pair,  meme  Baronnet 

Pour  le  General  Jean  Burgoyne, 

Signe*  Bute,  Nort  and  Germaine 

Trente  Janvier  avant  minuit 

Mil  sept  cent  soixante  dix-huit.     . 

Translation  of  the  above  by  Bauman  L.  Belden* 

PATENT  OF  LORD  DUKE  BURGOYNE. 

WE,  the  Parliament  of  England, 
Sovereign  over  sea  and  land, — 

*  Bauman  L.  Belden,  litterateur,  born  in  Brooklyn, 
N.  Y.,  November  23d,  1862.  Studied  at  New  Bruns 
wick,  N.  J.  His  great-great-grandfather,  on  the  ma 
ternal  side,  was  Colonel  Sebastian  Bauman.  Colonel 
Bauman  served  through  the  Revolution  as  major  in 
Colonel  Lamb's  regiment  of  artillery,  and  at  the 
evacuation  of  New  York  by  the  Americans,  in  1776, 
was  the  last  officer  to  leave  the  city.  In  October, 
1789,  he  was  appointed  postmaster  of  New  York  City, 
which  position  he  held  until  his  death,  October 


102  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Over  emperors  and  over  kings 
And  potentates  most  grand, 

And  islanders  and  devils 

And  the  rovers  of  the  seas — 
To  all  kings,  margraves,  electors, 

Republics  and  monarchies. 

Greeting  ! 

Our  hearts'  desire  being  to  reward 

All  who,  amid  war's  alarms, 
Have  won  immortal  glory 

By  splendid  feats  of  arms, 

And  having  well  examined 

All  the  bulletins  which  came 
From  America,  and  countries 

Too  numerous  to  name, 

And  having  also  heard  reports, 

From  Suffolk  and  from  North, 
Of  the  mighty  deeds  of  John  Burgoyne, 

That  soldier  of  great  worth, 

And  wishing  this  great  captain— 
Whose  fame  they  seek  to  dim, 

By  calling  him  a  boaster- 
Should  have  justice  done  to  him, 

1803.  As  might  be  inferred  from  his  ancestry,  Mr. 
Belden  takes  great  interest  in  all  matters  pertaining 
to  our  Revolutionary  history.  He  is  (1893)  librarian 
of  the  American  Numismatic  and  Archaeological  So 
ciety,  and  resides  at  Elizabeth,  N.  J.  The  reader,  es 
pecially  one  acquainted  with  the  French  idiom,  cannot 
fail  to  see  how  admirably  this  ballad  has  been  rendered 
into  English  by  Mr.  Belden.  Each  shade  of  thought 
is  preserved,  while  the  feet  of  the  verses  is  almost  exact. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  103 

And  to  confound  the  malice 

Of  his  foes,  Pitt  and  Burke, 
And  other  crooked  spirits 

Who  his  ruin  seek  to  work. 

Now  therefore,  our  secretary 

We  do  herewith  command 
To  send  a  beautiful  parchment, 

With  brevets  and  titles  grand, 

To  this  most  famous  general, 

That  thereby  his  fair  fame 
May  be  fully  re-established, 

And  honors  crown  his  name. 

His  fame  unjustly  was  attacked 

In  very  many  places, 
As  well  here  as  beyond  the  sea 

They  covered  it  with  disgraces. 

For  these  reasons,  by  these  presents- 
Honors  he  has  fairly  won — 

We,  and  the  King,  do  hereby  name  him 
Lord  and  Duke  of  Bennington. 

And  also  on  his  coat  of  arms, 

The  supporters  to  the  shield, 
Shall  be  two  batteries  of  cannon, 

Left  on  Saratoga's  field — * 


*  This  is  about  as  keen  and  delightful  a  piece 
of  satire  as  we  have  ever  chanced  to  meet  with,  es 
pecially  the  permission  of  the  patentors,  Bute,  etc.,  to 
Burgoyne,  who  is  here  dubbed  "  Duke  of  Bennington," 
to  use  as  supporters  on  his  coat  of  arms  the  two  bat- 


104:  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Abandoned  by  this  famous  general 

In  that  beautiful  retreat, 
When  his  brave  and  splendid  army 

Suffered  such  a  dire  defeat 

At  the  hands  of  those  French  braggarts, 
Those  rebels,  cowards  and  poltroons, 

Who  have  not  a  portion  of  the  courage 
Of  our  brave  German  dragoons. 

So,  after  mature  consideration 
We  have  made  this  matter  plain. 

Nor  should  this  displease  Count  Turpin,* 
Whom  one  of  us  provoked  in  vain.f 

Under  our  Sires'  great  waxen  seal, 
We  hereby  confirm  the  brevet 

Of  the  great  John  Burgoyne, 
Duke,  Peer  and  even  Baronet. 

SigneU. — Bute,  North,  Germaine, 

Thirtieth  of  January — very  late- 
Just  before  midnight 

Seventeen  hundred  and  seventy-eight 


teries  of  cannon  captured  by  the  Americans  at  Sara 
toga.  These  bronze  cannon,  by  the  way,  have,  by  an  act 
of  Congress,  lately  been  loaned  to  the  trustees  of  the 
Saratoga  Monument,  to  be  placed  at  the  base  of  the 
monument. 

*  The  famous  highwayman. 

t  The  point  of  this  allusion  is  not  plain.  However 
this  is  the  literal  translation. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  105 

PART  OF  AN  OLD  SONG  SUNG  BY  THE  WAGONERS 
OF  GATES'S  ARMY  FOR  MANY  YEARS  AFTER  THE 
BATTLES  OF  SARATOGA.  FROM  DR.  DWIGHT'S 
"  NORTHERN  TRAVELLER."* 

THAT  the  great  Mount  Defiance 

They  soon  would  fortify  :— 
We  found  that  we  must  quit  our  lines, 

Or  ev'ry  man  must  die. 

Which  soon  we  did  in  haste  perform, 

And  went  to  Sarritoag, 
A  burning  all  the  buildings 

We  found  along  the  road. 

'Twas  then  the  gen'rous  thought  inspir'd 

The  noble  Gates's  mind, 
For  to  send  out  Gin'ral  Arnold, 

To  see  if  he  could  find 

A  passage  through  the  inimy, 

Wherever  he  might  be  ; 
Which  soon  he  did  accomplish, 

And  set  the  country  free. 


*  Dr.  Dvvight  tells  us  that  once,  while  travelling  by 
stage  from  Caldwell  to  Ticonderoga,  he  heard  the 
driver,  an  old  wagoner  in  Gates's  army,  sing  the  above 
song,  these  four  verses  being  all  that  Dr.  Dwight 
remembered.  These  verses  are,  however,  but  an 
adulterated  form  of  the  ballad  on  "The  North 
Campaign,"  elsewhere  given. 


106  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

THE  RESTORED  CAPTIVE. 

(An  incident  of  the  Burgoyne  Campaign?) 
BY  COLONEL  WILLIAM  L.  STONE.* 

IN  yonder  sylvan  dale, 

The  hills  and  woods  among, 

Bright  as  the  fairest  vale 
The  poets  e'er  have  sung, 

*  William  Leete  Stone,  a  distinguished  American 
journalist  and  author,  was  born  at  New  Paltz,  Ulster 
County,  N.  Y.,  April  2Oth,  1792,  and  died  at  Saratoga 
Springs,  N.  Y.,  August  i5th,  1844.  His  wife  was  a  sis 
ter  of  President  Wayland,  of  Brown  University,  and  a 
daughter  of  the  Rev.  Francis  Wayland,  the  pioneer 
minister  of  the  Baptist  Church  at  Saratoga  Springs. 
When  a  child,  his  father  removed  into  the  valley  of  the 
Susquehanna,  and  subsequently  to  Sodus,  N.  Y.,  on  the 
shore  of  Lake  Ontario.  The  son  received  from  the 
father  thorough  instruction  in  Latin  and  Greek — the 
latter  having  himself  graduated  with  high  honor  at  Yale 
— and  at  the  age  of  seventeen  entered  the  newspaper 
office  of  Colonel  Prentiss,  at  Cooperstown,  N.  Y.,  to 
learn  the  printer's  trade,  and  soon  began  to  write 
newspaper  paragraphs.  In  1813  he  became  the  editor 
of  the  Herkimer  American,  subsequently  editing  po 
litical  newspapers  at  Hudson,  Albany  and  Hartford 
—in  the  latter  town  succeeding  Theodore  Dwight 
in  the  editorship  of  the  Hartford  Mirror.  In  the 
spring  of  1821  he  became  editor  and  one  of  the  propri 
etors  of  the  New  York  Commercial  Advertiser,vf\\\c\\ 
position  he  retained  until  his  death.  Though  possessing 
decided  ability  as  a  political  writer,  "  Colonel"  Stone 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  107 

Where  Hudson's  silver  tide 

Adorns  the  fairy  scene, 
Rejoicing  in  his  pride, 

'Mid  groves  forever  green  ; 
There,  dark  as  clouds  of  night, 

The  lurking  savage  came, 
With  hatchet  burnished  bright, 

And  torch  of  lurid  flame  ; 
To  wake  with  horrid  yell 

The  hamlet's  sweet  repose 
By  deeds  no  tongue  can  tell, 

The  deeds  of  savage  foes  ! 

(as  he  was  always  called,  from  having  held  that  rank 
on  the  military  staff  of  his  intimate  personal  and  po 
litical  friend,  Governor  De  Witt  Clinton)  preferred 
literary  pursuits  to  partisanship.  In  1825  he  was  ap 
pointed  by  the  corporation  of  New  York  City  to 
write  "The  Narrative  of  the  Grand  Erie  Canal  Cele 
bration."  His  short  stories,  written  for  the  differ 
ent  annuals  of  the  United  States  and  England,  were 
subsequently  collected  and  published  in  two  volumes, 
under  the  title  of  "  Tales  and  Sketches."  "  Ups  and 
Downs  in  the  Life  of  a  Distressed  Gentleman" 
(1836),  a  satirical  novel  on  the  follies  of  the  day, 
was  very  successful.  Among  his  more  elaborate 
works  were:  "Letters  on  Masonry  and  Anti-Ma 
sonry"  (New  York,  1832),  "  Border  Wars  of  the  Am 
erican  Revolution"  (2  vols.,  1834),  "Matthias  and 
his  Impostures"  (1835),  "The  Life  of  Maria  Monk" 
(1832),  "The  Life  of  Joseph  Brant,  Thayendanegea" 
(2  vols.,  Cooperstown,  1838),  "  Life  and  Times  of  Red 
Jacket"  (New  York,  1840),  "The  Poetry  and  History 
of  Wyoming"  (Wiley  &  Putnam,  1840),  and  "  Uncas 
and  Miantonomah"  (1842).  He  was  the  first  super- 


108  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

II. 

The  war-whoop,  shrill  and  wild, 

Through  darkest  gloom  was  heard  ; 
The  mother  clasped  her  child,* 

The  father  grasped  his  sword  ; 
But  ere  the  morning's  dawn, 

The  cruel  work  was  o'er : 
The  dusky  foe  was  gone. 

The  vale  was  steep'd  in  gore. 
The  dying  and  the  dead, 

Were  strew'd  along  the  plain, 
And  fewer  those  who  fled, 

Than  those  among  the  slain  ; 
And  loud  the  plaintive  cry, 

Broke  on  the  saddened  ear, 
With  many  a  heaving  sigh, 

And  many  a  scalding  tear. 

intendent  of  public  schools  of  the  city  of  New 
York,  and  his  great  controversy  with  Archbishop 
Hughes,  in  regard  to  the  reading  of  the  Bible  in 
the  public  schools  of  that  city,  will  long  be  remem 
bered,  the  last  letter  to  whom,  occupying  six  col 
umns  in  the  Commercial  Advertiser,  was  written  by 
him,  by  dictation,  on  his  death-bed  but  a  week  before 
his  decease.  At  the  time  of  his  death  he  was  engaged 
upon  a  life  of  Sir  William  Johnson,  which  was  com 
pleted  by  his  son,  William  L.  Stone,  Jr.  The  above 
MS.,  written  about  1819,  was  found  by  his  son  among 
his  unpublished  MS.  after  his  death. 

*  In  this  connection  the  reader  is  referred  to  the 
alto  rilievo  in  the  Saratoga  Monument  at  Schuylerville, 
N.  Y.,  "  Burgoyne  reprimanding  the  Indians  for  their 
barbarities,"  for  the  picture  of  the  mother  holding  her 
babe  to  her  breast — on  which  this  ballad  is  founded. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  109 

III. 

With  throbbing  bosoms  there, 

Amid  the  field  of  blood, 
Engaged  in  silent  prayer, 

Full  many  a  woman  stood, 
With  swimming  eyes,  disturb'd, 

Transfixed  as  by  a  spell, 
The  maiden  smote  her  breast, 

With  grief  she  could  not  tell. 
A  mother,  there  was  one, 

A  widow — and  she  wept 
Her  darling  infant  son, 

That  in  the  cradle  slept : 
The  babe,  the  eve  before, 

Had  sweetly  sunk  to  rest, 
Alas !  to  smile  no  more 

Upon  a  mother's  breast. 

IV. 

But  see  !  what  form  is  there 

Thus  bounding  from  the  wood, 
Like  panther  from  his  lair, 

Back  on  the  trail  of  blood  : 
A  chieftain  by  his  mien, 

Of  noble  form  is  he  ; 
A  prouder  ne'er  was  seen, 

In  chase  o'er  dell  and  lea. 
Swift  as  the  arrow's  flight, 

He  speeds  his  course  along, 
With  eye  of  burning  light, 

To  reach  the  weeping  throng. 
And  o'er  his  eagle  crest, 

A  banner  white  he  waves, 


110  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

As  though  to  make  request 
Of  good  intent  he  craves. 

V. 

Wrapped  in  his  blanket  warm, 

Loose  o'er  his  shoulder  flung, 
Yet  guarded  safe  from  harm, 

A  lovely  infant  hung. 
On,  on  with  breathless  strife, 

The  warrior  held  his  way. 
Quick  at  the  mother's  side, 

Her  own  lost  infant  lay  ! 
The  babe  look'd  up  and  smiled  * 

And  sweet  the  thrill  of  joy, 
As  now  with  transports  wild, 

She  clasped  her  darling  boy; 
While  rapid  as  the  light, 

The  warrior  leaped  the  flood, 
Sprang  swiftly  from  their  sight, 

And  vanished  in  the  wood! 

*  Some  reader  may  recall  a  similar  line  in  "  The 
Snow  Storm/'  by,  I  believe,  Hawthorne :  "  The  babe 
looked  up  and  sweetly  smiled."  But  as  this  ballad 
was  written  by  Colonel  Stone  when  Hawthorne  was  a 
mere  lad,  no  one  will  suspect  plagiarism. 


BALLADS  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  GENERAL  FRASER, 


THE  DEATH  AND  BURIAL  OF  GENERAL 

FRASER. 

BY  way  of  explanation  of  the  many  allusions  in  the 
following  ballads,  a  short  sketch  of  General  Eraser  and 
the  circumstances  of  his  burial  may  not  be  inappro 
priate. 

Simon  Fraser,  British  soldier,  born  in  1729  ;  died  in 
Saratoga,  N.  Y.,  October  8th,  1777.  He  was  the 
youngest  son  of  Alexander  Fraser,  of  Baluaire  and 
Glendo,  of  the  Lovat  family,  by  a  daughter  of  Angus 
Mackintosh,  of  Kellady,  from  whom  the  celebrated 
Sir  James  Mackintosh  was  directly  descended.  He 
entered  the  army  at  an  early  age,  and  after  several 
promotions  became  lieutenant-colonel  July  i4th,  1768. 
He  served  with  distinction  in  Holland  and  Germany, 
was  in  the  expedition  against  Louisburg,  and  accom 
panied  General  Wolfe  to  Quebec.  He  was  afterward 
stationed  in  Ireland,  whence  he  embarked  for  America 
with  the  Twenty-fourth  Regiment,  April  5th,  1776,  ar 
riving  at  Quebec  May  28th  of  that  year.  He  assisted 
in  driving  the  Americans  out  of  Canada  in  1776,  and 
was  in  command  of  the  severely  contested  engage 
ment  at  Three  Rivers.  Having  acquired  a  high  repu 
tation  for  judgment  and  cool  daring,  he  was  selected 
by  Burgoyne  to  command  the  light  brigade,  which 
formed  the  right  wing  of  the  British  army.  He  thus 


112  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

was  constantly  in  the  advance,  rendering  most  efficient 
service  ;  and  had  his  advice  been  followed,  the  blunder 
of  advancing  on  Bennington  with  heavily  mounted 
dragoons,  on  an  expedition  requiring  the  greatest 
celerity  of  movement,  would  never  have  been  com 
mitted.  After  the  evacuation  of  Ticonderoga  he  pur 
sued  the  retreating  Americans  under  St.  Clair,  and, 
assisted  by  his  German  ally,  General  Riedesel,  gained 
a  signal  victory  at  Hubbardton,  July  7th,  1777.  He 
opened  the  battle  of  September  igth  by  engaging 
Morgan's  skirmishers  ;  and  in  the  action  of  October 
7th  was  shot  and  mortally  wounded  by  "Tim"  Mur 
phy,  one  of  Morgan's  riflemen,  in  obedience  to  special 
instructions  from  that  officer. *  During  the  succeed 
ing  night  he  was  tenderly  ministered  to  by  the  Baro 
ness  Riedesel,  who  did  all  in  her  power  to  alleviate  his 
sufferings,  and  at  eight  o'clock  on  the  following  morn 
ing  he  died.  As  he  lay  dying  he  was  heard  frequently 
to  exclaim  :  "  Oh,  fatal  ambition  !  Oh,  my  poor  wife  ! 
Oh,  poor  General  Burgoyne  !"  He  was  buried  at  sun 
set,  according  to  his  special  request,  on  a  knoll  over 
looking  the  Hudson  River,  on  which  was  a  battery, 
Chaplain  Brudenell  officiating.  His  remains  were  at 
tended  to  the  grave  at  six  o'clock  in  the  evening  by 
the  general  officers ;  and  the  funeral  scene  is  described 
by  Burgoyne,  in  his  "  State  of  the  Expedition,"  and 
by  other  contemporaneous  writers,  as  unusually  sol 
emn,  impressive,  and  awful,  by  the  voice  of  the  chap 
lain  being  accompanied  by  constant  peals  from  the 
American  artillery,  and  the  cannon-shot  which  flew 
thick  around  and  near  the  funeral  cortege  as  it  was 
ascending  the  hill.  This  fire,  however,  ceased  imme- 

*  For  an  original  sketch  of  Murphy,  see  Appendix 
No.  IV. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  113 

diately  as  soon  as  the  nature  of  the   gathering   was 
known. 

To  Burgoyne  the  loss  of  Eraser  was  a  severe  blow  ; 
and  contemporary  military  writers  affirm  that,  had  he 
lived,  the  British  would  have  made  good  their  retreat 
into  Canada.  Certain  it  is  that  had  Fraser  lived  to 
give  his  advice  to  Burgoyne — and  it  would  undoubt 
edly  have  been  taken — the  latter  would  have  avoided 
the  blunders  he  made,  which  was  the  cause  of  his  sur 
render.  Riedesel,  it  is  true,  advised  the  same  course 
which  Fraser  would  have  done  had  he  lived.  But  ad 
vice  from  Riedesel — whom,  as  a  German  ally,  Bur 
goyne  never  liked — would  have  been  a  very  different 
thing  from  Burgoyne's  loved  friend,  Fraser. 

It  was  said  of  Fraser  that  he  had  always  shown  as 
great  skill  in  conducting  a  retreat  as  bravery  in  lead 
ing  an  attack,  having,  during  the  Seven  Years'  War, 
brought  off  in  safety  five  hundred  chasseurs  in  sight  of 
the  French  army.  General  Fraser's  temperament  was 
warm,  open,  and  communicative,  but  reserved  in  mat 
ters  of  confidence.  Burgoyne  paid  him  a  touching 
tribute  in  his  "Narrative,"  and  in  his  report  to  Lord 
George  Germaine,  dated  Albany,  October  2oth,  1777, 
said :  "  The  extensive  merits  which  marked  the  public 
and  private  character  of  Brigadier-General  Fraser  will 
long  remain  upon  the  memory  of  this  army  and  make 
his  loss  a  subject  of  particular  regret."  Fraser  mar 
ried,  in  1769,  Mrs.  Grant,  of  London,  who  survived 
him,  and  who,  in  1781, -married  at  Edinburgh  an  ad 
vocate  named  George  Buchan  Hepburn.  The  state 
ment  that  the  remains  of  General  Fraser  were  removed 
to  England  after  the  Revolution  is  without  foundation. 
For  more  about  Fraser,  see  Stone's  "  Burgoyne's  Cam 
paign"  and  General  Rope's  "  Hadden's  Journal,"  both 
published  by  Munsell's  Sons,  Albany,  N.  Y.  In  "  Bur- 


114  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

goyne's  Campaign"  will  be  found  an  interesting  ac 
count  of  the  death  of  Fraser,  with  reflections  on  that 
event,  written  by  Professer  Lilliman  during  the  night 
he  stopped  in  the  house  where  Fraser  died. 


THE    BURIAL    OF    GEN.    FRASER. 

READ  BEFORE  THE  ANNUAL  MEETING  OF  THE  SARA 
TOGA    MONUMENT  ASSOCIATION,    1874,  BY 
E.  W.  B.  CANNING,  ESQ. 

ON  Saratoga's  crimsoned  field, 

When  battle's  volleyed  roar  was  done, 
Mild  autumn's  mellow  light  revealed 

The  glories  of  the  setting  sun. 
On  furrow,  fence  and  tree  that  bear 

The  iron  marks  of  battling  men, 
The  radiance  burneth  calm  and  fair, 

As  tho'  earth  aye  had  sinless  been. 
The  gory  sods,  all  scathed  and  scarred, 

And  piled  in  trenched  mounds  declare 
That  mutual  foeman,  fallen,  marred, 

Have  found  a  final  bivouac  there. 
And  list !  from  yonder  bulwarked  height 

The  faint-heard  martial  signals  come: 
For  those  who  keep  the  watch  to-night 

Are  gathering  at  the  evening  drum. 

So,  Saratoga,  lay  thy  field 

When  freedom,  'mid  the  shock  of  steel, 
Made  Britain's  rampant  lion  yield, 

And  crushed  his  terrors  'neath  her  heel. 
Proudly  the  freeman  points  to  thee, 

And  speaks  thy  unforgotten  name ; 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  115 

While  on  her  page  bright  history 

For  children's  children  writes  thy  fame. 


As  the  last  sunbeam  kissed  the  trees 

That  sighed  amid  its  dying  glow, 
Borne  softly  on  the  evening  breeze 

Floated  the  soldier's  note  of  woe. 
From  out  the  Briton's  guarded  lines, 

With  wailing  fife  and  muffled  drum, 
While  gleaming  gold  with  scarlet  shines, 

A  band  of  mourning  warriors  come. 
With  arms  reversed,  all  sad  and  slow, 

And  measured  tread  of  martial  men, 
Forth  on  their  lengthened  path  they  go, 

But  not  to  wake  the  strife  again. 
No  plunging  haste  of  battles  there, 

No  serried  ranks  or  bristling  lines ; 
No  furious  coursers  headlong  bear 

Their  riders  where  the  death  flash  shines. 
The  pennon  is  the  soldiers'  pall, « 

The  battery  for  the  bier  is  changed, 
And  plumes  of  nodding  sable  all 

On  chieftains'  brows  are  round  it  ranged. 
The  noblest  leader  of  the  host 

They  carry  to  his  dreamless  sleep ; 
The  heart  of  British  hope  is  lost, 

And  vain  the  tears  that  Britons  weep. 
Thine  arm  of  valor,  proud  Burgoyne, 

Is  paralyzed  for  ever  now  ; 
While  sorrow-stricken  comrades  join 

Fondly  to  wreathe  dead  Fraser's  brow. 

On  yonder  hill  that  skirts  the  plain, 
A  lone  redoubt  with  haste  upraised 


116  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

O'erlooks  around  the  trampled  grain, 

Where  oft  the  dying  hero  gazed. 
"  Bury  me  there  at  set  of  sun," 

(His  latest  words  of  ebbing  life) 
"  Tis  mine  to  see  no  triumph  won, 

Or  mingle  with  the  final  strife. 
If  gloom  awaits  our  path  of  fame, 

I  die  before  the  ill  befalls  ; 
These  ears  shall  tingle  not  with  shame, 

Nor  longer  list  when  glory  calls. 
At  set  of  sun,  in  yon  redoubt, 

Lay  me  to  rest  as  rest  the  brave." 
The  flickering  lamp  of  life  went  out, 

And  strangers'  land  must  yield  a  grave. 

Slowly  in  mournful  march  they  wend 

Their  upward  pathway  to  the  tomb; 
Unwittingly  the  foemen  send 

Their  shots  around  amid  the  gloom.* 
They  reach  the  height,  commit  their  trust, 

And  reverent  all  uncovered  stand  ; 
While  booming  shots  updash  the  dust 

In  clouds  about  the  listening  band. 
Robed  and  with  dignity  serene, 

The  man  of  God  reads  calmly  on ; 


*  This  refers  to  the  shots  which  were  at  first  sent 
by  the  Americans  at  the  funeral  cortege  which  was 
ascending  the  hill  to  bury  General  Fraser.  Although 
it  has  often  been  explained  that  the  Americans,  as 
soon  as  they  ascertained  that  the  procession  was  to  the 
funeral  of  Fraser,  ceased  at  once  to  fire  on  the  party, 
yet  by  prejudiced  English  historians  this  fiction  has 
still  been  kept  up.  See  preceding  note. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  117 

No  terror  marks  his  quiet  mien, 

As  hoarse  responds  the  distant  gun. 
"  Earth  to  earth  and  dust  to  dust :" 

Thus  the  solemn  accents  fall ; 
Each  receives  her  precious  trust, 

Evening  saddens  over  all. 
Pile  the  mound ;  no  living  form 

Nobler  soul  enshrines  than  he, 
Now  bequeathed  the  darkling  worm — 

Pride  of  Albion's  chivalry  ! 
All  is  done :  there  wait  for  thee, 

Fallen  chief,  no  more  alarms ; 
But  thy  peers  anon  must  see 

Hapless  u  field  of  grounded  arms." 


Years  have  trolled  their  changes  by ; 

Harvests  oft  have  robed  the  plain  ; 
And  the  leafy  honors  high 

Sigh  no  more  above  the  slain. 
Sons  of  sires  who  in  the  black, 

Doleful  days  of  '77 
Rolled  the  tide  of  battle  back, 

Seeking  hope  and  strength  in  Heaven, 
Wondering  tread  the  storied  ground, 

And  with  glowing  accents  tell 
How  their  fathers  victory  found, 

And  the  spot  where  Eraser  fell. 
Gallant  chieftain,  nobler  song 

Ought  to  speak  thy  honored  name ; 
But  our  sons  remembering  long, 

Worthier  tribute  pay  thy  fame ! 


118  The  Burgvyne  Ballads. 

THE  BURIAL  OF  GENERAL  ERASER, 

AT  SUNSET,  OCTOBER  8,  1777. 
BY  E.  W.   B.  CANNING. 

[Dedicated  to  the  trustees  of  the  Saratoga  Monument  association.'} 

THERE  was  mourning  at  the  eventide  that  sad  October 

day, 
There  was  mourning  in  the  camp  wherein  the  hosts  of 

Britain  lay  ; 
For  the  sun  that  glanced  so  proudly  on  their  bayonets 

at  dawn 
Behind  the  lingering  battle  clouds  of  rout  and  wreck 

had  gone. 

As  the  stern  sergeant's  tones,  amid  the  day's  decline, 
Called  the  thinned  muster  roll  along  the  martial  line, 
How  eloquent  the  silence  fell,  and,  ah  !  how  frequent ! 

when 
A  comrade's  name  was  spoken  who  should  answer 

not  again ! 

But   deeper   gloom  than    wont    befell   when   battle's 

crash  was  o'er, 
For  he  who  led  the  foremost  ranks  should  lead  them 

nevermore — 
The  leader  round  whose  knightly  brows  the  oak  and 

laurel  join — 
The  bravest  chieftain  of  the  brave — the  right  arm  of 

Burgoyne. 

"  Bury  me" — said  the  hero,  as  the  spark  of  life  went 

out — 
"  At    sunset,   where   your   banner   waves   above   the 

4  Great  Redoubt'; 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  119 

Believe  my  soul  is  with  you  yet,  and  be  my  memory 
Still  cherished  in  your  valiant  hearts  whate'er  the  end 
may  be." 

And  in  the  misty  gloaming  went  a  sad   procession 

forth, 
With  solemn  step  and  muffled  drums  and  thoughts  of 

fallen  worth, 

While  foeman's  guns,  unwittingly,  upon  the  hills  afar 
Roared  out,  amid  the  gathering  gloom,  the  thunder 

tones  of  war. 

And  as  the  mournful  multitude  the  yawning  grave 

surround, 
Fiercely    the    iron    messengers    updash   the  sodded 

ground  : 
But   not   a   coward  cheek  was  blanched ;  no  hurried 

word  was  said 
Of  service  due  the  holy  man  rehearsed  above  the  dead. 

So  laid  they  gallant  Fraser  in  his  chosen  place  to  rest, 
And   warriors'  tears    bedewed  the   sod   that    hid  his 

manly  breast. 
Peace  to  the  ashes  of  the  brave  !     For  him  no  more 

alarms, 
No  grief,  anon,  of  comrades  on  "The  Field  of  Grounded 

Arms." 


THE  BURIAL  OF  GENERAL  FRASER. 
BY  LURA  A.  BOIES.* 

HE  fell,  the  bold  hero!  low  lay  the  proud  form 
That  braved  the  red  wrath  of  the  battle's  wild  storm, 

*  Lura  A.  Boies,  daughter  of  Jerome  and  Hannah 
G.  (Gillette)   Boies,  was  born  in  the  town  of  Moreau, 


120  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

When  dark  hung  the  cloud  of  the  furious  fray 
O'er  the  fell  hights  of  Bemis,  they  bore  him  away. 

He  spoke,  and  his  heart  for  a  moment  beat  high, 
The  fire  of  his  spirit  flashed  forth  from  his  eye, 
"When  the  terrible  voice  of  the  conflict  is  still, 
Lay  me  down  in  the  sunset  to  rest  on  the  hill." 

They  saw  the  fierce  gleam  of  the  battle  light  fade, 
And  faint  grew  the  roar  of  the  fell  cannonade, 
When  the  wing  of  the  night  fluttered  down  o'er  the 

west, 
They  laid  the  brave  warrior  away  to  his  rest. 

Proud  day,  Columbia,  for  thee, 

When  upward  soared  thine  eagle  FREE! 

Proud  day,  when  from  the  hills  of  strife 

The  sullen  war  cloud  rolled  away, 
And  Triumph  waved  her  peaceful  wing 

Above  the  fell  and  fatal  fray. 
Glad  millions  shouted  then  "  'TIS  DONE  !" 

Saratoga  County,  N.  Y.,  on  May  2d,  1835.  Like  the 
Davidson  sisters  (Lucretia  and  Margaret  Miller),  she 
at  a  very  early  age  developed  precocious  intellectual 
abilities  "which  her  pen  shaped  from  '  airy  nothings' 
and  formed  'a  local  habitation  and  a  name.'"  Devoting 
the  leisure  hours  of  a  busy  life  to  literary  pursuits, 
she,  while  yet  in  mere  girlhood,  accumulated  the 
materials  for  a  graceful  volume  of  poems,  which,  after 
her  death,  through  the  indefatigable  efforts  of  the  late 
Judge  Hay,  of  Saratoga  Springs,  were  published  under 
the  title  of  "Rural  Rhymes."  She  died  April  i5th, 
1859,  an^  is  buried  near  her  heroine,  Jane  McCrea, 
in  the  Union  Cemetery  between  Fort  Edward  and 
Sandy  Hill. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  121 

And  high  hearts  hailed  the  victory  won, 

And  clear  the  exulting  strain, 
In  one  loud  peal  of  lofty  song, 

Went  o'er  the  heaving  main. 

Oh,  there  was  grief  and  anguish  then 
In  the  bowed  hearts  of  Albion's  men, 
And  dark  as  night  the  wing  of  woe, 
Brooded  above  the  vanquished  foe  ! 
Not  as  when  girded  for  the  strife, 
In  the  full  flush  of  daring  life, 

With  glowing  hopes  all  vain, 
Through  the  dim  silence,  hushed  and  still, 
At  sunset  up  the  chosen  hill, 

Wound  the  slow  funeral  train. 
Oh,  not  as  marshaled  for  the  field, 
With  burnished  lance  and  gleaming  shield, 

And  scarlet  banners  flame, 
That  stricken  band  of  warriors  brave 

To  the  lone  burial  came  ; 
Nor  yet,  with  death-flag's  ebon  wave 

And  sound  of  muffled  drum, 
As  conquering  heroes  to  the  grave 

Of  martial  glory  come. 
No  plaintive  dirge  rose  on  the  air, 
No  sable  plumes  drooped  darkly  there, 
But  with  hushed  hearts  and  mournful  tread 
They  bore  away  their  gallant  dead. 

More  awful  than  the  battle's  roll 
The  gloom  that  bowed  each  haughty  soul, 
And  wilder  was  the  storm  within 
Than  the  fierce  conflict's  raging  din, 

Where  he,  the  hero,  fell, 
'Mid  clash  of  arms  and  ring  of  steel, 
And  brazen  trumpet's  clarion  peal, 

And  noise  of  bursting  shell. 


122  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Hark  !  from  the  hills  a  sudden  sound 
Trembles  along  the  startled  ground, 

And  slowly  dies  away — 
Tis  from  the  bosom  of  the  free, 
The  mighty  heart  of  victory 
Throbs  in  that  solemn,  mourning  gun, 
And  thus  to  Albion's  fallen  son 

The  brave  their  tribute  pay. 

'Tis  beautiful,  when  those  who  met 
In  dire  and  dreadful  strife,  forget 

Their  hatred,  dark  and  deep  ; 
And  when  the  tide  of  life  swells  high, 
Lay  all  their  full  rejoicing  by, 

To  weep  with  those  who  weep ! 

Oh,  grateful  in  that  hour  of  woe 
To  those  whose  light  had  fled, 

The  homage  of  the  conquering  foe, 
To  him  their  noble  dead ! 

And  many  a  stern  heart's  mute  despair, 
Was  melted  into  softness  there, 

And  hot  tears  fell  like  rain, 
O'er  the  bold  soldier's  coffined  form, 

The  gallant  Fraser  slain  ! 

The  night  came  down  in  silence  grand 

Above  the  hero's  grave  ; 
They  turned  away  that  mournful  band — 

They  left  the  sleeping  brave 
Far  from  his  own,  his  native  land, 

Beyond  the  deep  blue  wave, 
And  cloud  and  storm  and  gathering  gloom, 
Were  mourners  at  the  warrior's  tomb ! 
*  *  *  *  # 

'Twas  the  wild  eve  of  that  dread  day 
When  Albion's  haughty  standard  fell, 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  123 

Red  lightnings  flashed  above  the  slain, 
And  thunders  tolled  a  fearful  knell. 

The  dying  wail,  the  hollow  groan 

Blent  strangely  with  the  hoarse  wind's  moan 

And  darkly  o'er  the  fatal  Hights 
Where  cold  the  ghastly  fallen  slept, 

Black  clouds  hung  like  a  sable  pall, 
And  sad  the  pitying  heavens  wept. 

Out  in  the  deep  night's  starless  gloom, 

Like  a  white  angel  in  the  storm, 
Moved  by  her  pure  heart's  deathless  love, 

Stole  woman's  frail  and  tender  form. 
Above  her  burst  the  tempest's  wrath, 
And  shadows  gathered  o'er  her  path, 
And  yet  the  hurtling,  shrieking  blast 

Swept  all  unheeded  by ; 
For  colder  than  the  blinding  rain, 
The  weary  weight  of  grief  and  pain, 

That  on  her  soul  did  lie. 
With  falling  tears  her  face  grew  damp, 

A  mist  came  o'er  her  clear  blue  eye  ; 
Her  love,  her  light,  her  spirit's  pride, 
He  whose  low  voice  had  called  her,  bride, 
Bound  bleeding  in  the  foeman's  camp, 

Had  laid  him  down  to  die. 
Oh,  stronger  in  that  awful  hour, 

And  mightier  than  the  strife, 
He  tried  affection's  holy  power, 
That  lofty  inspiration  gave, 
And  nerved  with  courage,  calm  and  brave, 

The  true,  high-hearted  wife ! 
She  in  her  fearless  faith  would  seek 

The  proud,  victorious  foe, 
The  chilling  grief  that  blanched  her  cheek, 


124:  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

To  the  stern  hearts  of  men  should  speak: 
The  strong  should  bow  before  the  weak, 

And  pity  her  wild  woe. 
Her  love  the  stricken  one  should  bless, 
Her  lips  the  brow  of  pain  should  press, 
By  all  her  soul's  deep  tenderness, 

She  to  her  lord  would  go  ! 

Down  by  the  surging  river's  shore, 

Lashed  by  the  foaming  spray, 
With  spreading  sail  and  waiting  oar, 

The  frail  boat  ready  lay — 
And  thither  with  light  step  and  fleet, 
Her  fond  heart  winging  her  fast  feet, 

The  brave  wife  bent  her  way. 
A  moment's  pause,  a  brief  space  o'er, 
And  swift  the  light,  careering  barque, 
Launched  out  upon  the  waters  dark, 
And  closer  round  her  shivering  form, 
Fell  the  cold  mantle  of  the  storm. 

Oh,  strengthened  by  the  holy  flame, 

That  glows  within  her  breast, 
And  nerves  with  power  her  gentle  frame, 
When  clouds  come  o'er  her  heaven  fair, 
What  will  not  woman  do  and  dare 
For  those  her  love  hath  blest ! 


THE  BURIAL  OF  GEN.  FRASER. 

FROM  THEODORE  DWIGHT'S  4<  NORTHERN  TRAVELLER."* 

I. 

THE  warrior  sleeps,  he  wakes  no  more, 
At  glory's  voice  of  chivalry ; 

*  Theodore    Dwi^ht,    author  and  editor,  was  born 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  125 

His  part  amid  the  strife  is  o'er 
He  starts  not  at  the  cannon's  roar, 
Nor  rolling  drum,  nor  musketry. 

in  Hartford,  Conn.,  March  3d,  1796.  In  1833,  he  re 
moved  to  Brooklyn,  N.  Y.,  and  engaged  in  various 
public  and  philanthropic  enterprises,  becoming  a  direct 
or  in  numerous  religious  and  educational  societies.  In 
1854-8  he,  with  George  Walker,  was  active  in  a 
systematic  effort  to  send  free-soil  settlers  to  Kansas ; 
and  it  is  estimated  that  9000  persons  were  induced  by 
them  to  go  to  that  State.  He  was  at  different  times 
engaged  in  an  editorial  capacity  on  several  newspapers 
and  magazines,  and  he  was  at  one  time  chief  editor 
and  publisher  of  the  New  York  Presbyterian.  He 
published  a  number  of  works,  one  of  which  was  "The 
Northern  Traveller,"  from  which  the  above  verses  are 
taken.  He  was  a  grandson  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Timothy, 
who  served  in  the  army  of  General  Gates  in  Parsons' 
Brigade  of  the  Connecticut  line,  and  who,  a  few  days 
before  the  battles  of  Saratoga,  preached  from  the  text : 
"  /  will  remove  far  from  me  the  Northern  armyT 
At  the  time  of  his  death  Mr.  Dwight  was  translating 
educational  works  into  Spanish,  for  introduction  into 
Spanish-American  countries.  He  was  an  exceedingly 
active  man,  bearing  his  age  wonderfully  well.  Indeed, 
this  very  activity  was  the  direct  cause  of  his  death, 
which  occurred  in  1866.  Shortly  before  his  decease 
he  called  on  me  at  the  Journal  of  Commerce,  of 
which  paper  I  was  then  city  editor,  and  coming  up  to 
the  fifth  floor — it  was  before  the  days  of  elevators — 
he  fairly  bounded  into  my  room,  exclaiming:  "Mr. 
Stone,  I  have  run  up  your  stairs  as  easily  and  with  no 
more  effort  than  as  if  I  were  a  boy  again  !"  Some 
four  days  later,  while  attempting  to  board  a  Pennsyl- 


126  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

II. 

No  more  the  soldier  leads  the  band 

Of  Britain's  warlike  infantry, 
They  hear  no  more  his  stern  command 
Nor  gleams  his  sword,  nor  waves  his  hand 
Urging  to  death  or  victory  ! 

III. 

The  rifle  lays  the  chieftain  low 
By  Morgan  aimed  so  fatally. 
He  falls  where  streams  of  life  blood  flow, 
Where  comrades  'neath  the  deadly  blow 
Have  fallen  wounded  mortally. 

IV. 

So  "  Glory  leads  but  to  the  grave" 

Such  was  the  soldier's  destiny 
To  meet  his  doom  he  crossed  the  wave, 
His  life-blood  flowed,  his  deeds  so  brave, 
Were  given  for  chains  and  slavery. 

V. 

In  evening  shadows  sinks  the  sun, 

And  life  departs  thus  mournfully, 
Its  brightness  faoes  in  shadows  dun, 
And  so  the  hero's  course  was  run, 
And  ended  thus  in  tragedy. 


vania  Railroad  train  in  motion — relying  upon  this 
same  activity — he  was  thrown  under  the  wheels  and 
instantly  killed ! 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  127 

VI. 

His  lifeless  form  is  borne  on  high, 

In  solemn  martial  pageantry 
While  threat'ning  clouds  obscure  the  sky, 
And  fires  of  death  are  flashing  nigh 

And  roar  of  dread  artillery. 


BALLADS  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  JANE  McCREA, 


SKETCH  OF  JANE  McCREA. 

THERE  have  been  so  many  different  versions  of  the 
tragic  death  of  Jane  McCrea  put  forth,  both  at  the 
time  of  the  occurrence  and  since,  that  it  seems  only 
proper  to  give,  as  a  preface  to  the  numerous  poems 
and  ballads  on  this  subject,  the  true  version  as  gath 
ered  by  myself  after  much  research. 

Jane  McCrea  was  born  in  Bedminster  (now  Lam- 
ington),  N.  J.,  in  1753,  and  was  killed  near  Fort  Ed 
ward,  N.  Y.,  July  27th,  1777.  She  was  the  second 
daughter  of  Rev.  James  McCrea,  a  Presbyterian 
clergyman  of  Scotch  descent,  whose  father,  William, 
was  an  elder  in  White  Clay  Creek  Church,  near  New 
ark,  Del.  After  his  death  she  made  her  home  with 
her  brother  John  at  Fort  Edward,  N.  Y.*  It  is  safe  to 


*  John  McCrea,  the  brother  of  Jane,  was  a  patriot. 
He  had  been  with  the  unfortunate  expedition  of 
General  Montgomery  and  fought  in  the  battle  of 
Quebec  ;  and  when  General  Schuyler,  in  command  at 
Fort  Edward,  called  on  the  militia  to  take  the  field, 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  129 

say  that  no  event,  either  in  ancient  or  modern  warfare, 
has  received  more  versions  than  that  of  her  death.  It 
has  been  commemorated  in  story  and  in  song,  and 
narrated  in  grave  histories  in  as  many  different  ways 
as  there  have  been  writers  on  the  subject.  The  facts 
appear  to  be  as  follows : 

David  Jones,  her  lover,  an  officer  in  Burgoyne's 
army,  then  lying  four  miles  from  Fort  Edward,  sent 
a  party  of  Indians,  under  Duluth,  a  half-breed,  to  es 
cort  his  betrothed  to  the  British  camp,  where  they  were 
to  be  at  once  married  by  Chaplain  Brudenell,*  Lady 


he  promptly  obeyed  the  summons.  Between  him  and 
David  Jones  there  had  arisen  an  estrangement,  grow 
ing  out  of  their  opposite  sympathies  in  relation  to  the 
war.  But  Jane  still  clung  to  her  betrothed,  notwith 
standing  her  brother's  dislike  for  him. 

*  There  is  also  much  probability  that  Jane  received 
communications  from  her  lover  at  intervals,  especially 
after  the  British  army  left  Skenesborough.  The  fol 
lowing  original  letter  from  Jones  to  Jenny  bears  out 
this  view : 

'•  SKENESBORO',  July  n,  1777. 

"Dear  Friend :  I  have  ye  opportunity  to  send  you 
this  by  William  Bamsy,  hoping  through  Freel  it  will 
come  safe  to  hand.  Since  last  writing,  Ty  has  been 
taken,  and  we  have  had  a  battle,  which  no  doubt  you 
have  been  informed  of  before  this.  Through  God's 
mercy  I  escaped  destruction,  and  am  now  well  at  this 
place,  for  which  thanks  be  to  Him.  The  rebels  cannot 
recover  from  the  blowyt  has  been  struck,  and  no  doubt 
the  war  will  soon  end.  Such  should  be  the  prayer  of 
all  of  us.  Dear  Jenny,  I  do  not  forget  you,  though 


130  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Harriet  Acland*  and  Madame  Riedesel  (the  wife  of 
General  Riedesel,  in  command  of  the  Brunswick  con 
tingent)  having  good-naturedly  consented  to  grace  the 
nuptials  by  their  presence.  Duluth,  having  arrived 
within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  the  house  of  a  Mrs.  McNeil, 
a  cousin  of  General  Eraser  (where  Jane  was  waiting), 
halted  in  the  woods  until  he  should  be  joined  by  her  by 
preconcerted  arrangement.  Meanwhile,  another  body 
of  Indians  from  the  British  camp,  under  Le  Loup,  a 
fierce  Wyandotte  chief,  returning  from  a  marauding 


much  there  is  to  distract  in  these  days,  and  hope  I  am 
remembered  by  you  as  formerly.  In  a  few  days  we 
will  march  to  Ft.  Edward,  for  which  I  am  anxious, 
where  I  shall  have  the  happiness  to  meet  you,  after 
long  absence.  I  hear  from  Isaac  Vaughn,  who  has 
just  come  in,  that  the  people  on  the  river  are  moving 
to  Albany.  I  hope  if  your  brother  John  goes,  you 
will  not  go  with  him,  but  stay  at  Mrs.  McNeil's,  to 
whom  and  Miss  Hunter  give  my  dutiful  respects. 
There  I  will  join  you.  My  dear  Jenny,  these  are  sad 
times,  but  I  think  the  war  will  end  this  year,  as  the 
rebels  cannot  hold  out,  and  will  see  their  error.  By 
the  blessing  of  Providence  I  trust  we  shall  yet  pass 
many  years  together  in  peace.  Shall  write  on  every 
occasion  that  offers,  and  hope  to  find  you  at  Mrs. 
McNeil's.  No  more  at  present;  but  believe  me  yours 
affectionately  till  death. 

DAVID  JONES." 

*  For  a  sketch  of  Lady  Acland,  explaining  the  fab 
ulous  account  of  her  marriage  with  Parson  Brudenell, 
etc.,see  Appendix  No.  V.  I  do  not  give  one  of  Madame 
Riedesel,  as  that  is  found  in  my  "  Memoirs  of  General 
and  Madame  Riedesel,"  Munsell's  Sons,  Albany,  N.  Y. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  131 

expedition  in  the  vicinity,  drove  in  a  scout  of  Ameri 
cans,  and  stopping,  on  their  return,  at  Mrs.  McNeil's, 
took  her  and  Jane  captive,  with  the  intention  of 
bringing  them  into  the  British  camp.  On  their  way 
back  they  encountered  Duluth's  party,  when  the  half- 
breed  claimed  Jane  as  being  under  his  protection. 
Le  Loup  being  unwilling  to  surrender  his  prisoner — 
himself  wishing  the  honor  of  being  her  escort — high, 
words  ensued  between  the  two  leaders,  when  Le  Loup,, 
enraged  at  being  opposed,  in  a  fit  of  violent  passion, 
shot  her  through  the  heart.  Then,  having  scalped  his 
victim,  he  carried  the  reeking  scalp  into  the  British 
camp,  where  it  was  immediately  recognized,  by  its  long 
and  beautiful  tresses,  by  Mrs.  McNeil,  who,  having 
been  separated  from  Jane  before  the  catastrophe,  had 
arrived  at  Burgoyne's  headquarters  a  little  in  advance. 
The  next  day  her  mangled  body  was  conveyed  by  her 
brother,  Colonel  John  McCrea,  to  the  camp-ground  of 
the  fort,  and  there  buried.  Her  lover,  David  Jones, 
it  is  said,  never  recovered  from  the  shock  thus  received. 
He  soon  after  resigned  and  left  the  army,  and  after 
many  years  of  melancholy  died  unmarried. 

Miss  McCrea  is  described  by  those  who  knew  her 
personally  as  a  young  woman  of  rare  accomplishments, 
great  personal  attractions,  and  of  a  remarkable  sweet 
ness  of  disposition.  She  was  of  medium  stature,  finely 
formed,  and  of  a  delicate  blonde  complexion.  Her 
hair  was  of  a  golden  brown  and  silken  lustre,  and,  when 
unbound,  trailed  upon  the  ground.  Her  father  was 
devoted  to  literary  pursuits,  and  she  thus  had  acquired 
a  taste  for  reading  unusual  in  one  of  her  age  in  those 
early  times. 

The  tragic  death  of  Jane  McCrea  was  to  the  people 
of  New  York  what  the  battle  of  Lexington  was  to  the 
New  England  colonies.  In  each  case  the  effect  was 


132  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

to  consolidate  the  inhabitants  more  firmly  against  the 
invaders.  The  blood  of  the  unfortunate  maiden  was 
not  shed  in  vain.  Her  name  was  passed  as  a  note  of 
alarm  along  the  banks  of  the  Hudson,  and,  as  a  rally 
ing  cry  among  the  Green  Mountains  of  Vermont, 
brought  down  to  the  army  of  Gates  her  hardy  sons. 
It  thus  contributed  in  no  slight  degree  to  Burgoyne's 
defeat,  which  became  a  precursor  and  principal  cause 
of  American  independence.  Descendants  of  the  Mc- 
Crea  family  are  still  (1893)  living  at  Ballston,  N.  Y., 
and  in  other  parts  of  the  State  of  New  York,  and  also 
in  Newport,  R.  I. 

At  the  time  of  her  death,  her  mangled  and  disfigured 
body  was  conveyed  by  her  brother,  Colonel  John  Mc- 
Crea,  and  sympathizing  friends  to  Moses  Kill,  where  a 
fortified  camp-ground,  laid  out  by  the  celebrated  Polish 
engineer  Kosciusko,  was  then  occupied  by  the  rear 
guard  of  the  American  army^,  under  the  command  of 
General  Arnold.  Here,  after  some  preparation,  her 
body,  together  with  that  of  the  fated  Van  Vecten,  was 
committed  to  a  common  grave.  On  April  22d,  1822, 
these  remains  were  removed  to  the  old  burial-ground 
near  the  fort,  at  the  lower  end  of  the  village  of  Fort 
Edward.  The  ceremonial  was  attended  with  unusual 
pomp  and  display  for  those  early  days — the  celebrated 
and  afterward  unfortunate  Hooper  Cummings,  of  Al 
bany,  preaching  upon  that  occasion  from  Micah  2  : 10 
so  impressive  and  pathetic  a  sermon  that  many  of 
his  audience  were  convulsed  with  sobs  and  weep 
ing. 

The  remains  of  Miss  McCrea  were,  in  1852,  again 
removed  to  the  Union  Cemetery  between  Fort  Ed 
ward  and  Sandy  Hill,  the  McCrea  lot  being  near  the 
main  entrance.  The  marble  slab  which  marks  the  spot 
bears  the  following  inscription  : 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  133 

HERE    REST  THE  REMAINS  OF 

JANE  McCREA 

AGED   17 
MADE    CAPTIVE    AND    MURDERED 

BY    A    BAND    OF    INDIANS 

WHILE    ON    A    VISIT  TO  A  RELATIVE  IN 

THIS  NEIGHBORHOOD 

A.D.    1777 
TO    COMMEMORATE 

ONE    OF    THE    MOST    THRILLING    INCIDENTS 
IN       THE      ANNALS     OF       THE      AMERICAN      REVOLUTION 

TO    DO    JUSTICE    TO    THE    FAME    OF    THE    GALLANT 

BRITISH       OFFICER      TO      WHOM      SHE      WAS     AFFIANCED 

AND    AS    A    SIMPLE    TRIBUTE    TO   THE 

MEMORY    OF    THE    DEPARTED 

THIS     STONE     IS    ERECTED 

BY    HER    NIECE 

SARAH  HANNA  PAYNE 

A.D.   1852. 

"There  is  at  present"  (1893),  writes  to  me  Mrs. 
Charles  Stone,  of  Sandy  Hill,  who,  with  most  praise 
worthy  zeal,  has  taken  a  deep  interest  in  the  matter 
"  a  chain  fence  with  stone  posts  around  the  lot.  The 
marble  slab  bears  the  coat-of-arms  of  the  relic-hunter  ! 
being  nicked  at  every  point,  except  possibly  beneath 
the  soil.  The  whole  has  the  appearance  of  great 
neglect.  There  is,  however,  a  fund  now  being  raised 
to  put  it  in  much  better  condition.  The  public  schools 
of  Sandy  Hill  and  Glens  Falls  have  sent  penny  do 
nations,  and  Fort  E.  has  promised  to  do  likewise. 
It  is  the  intention  of  the  trustees  of  the  cemetery  to 
have  the  improvements  made  this  spring.  They  wish 
to  erect  a  substantial  fence,  ornamental,  of  iron,  but  to 
be  kept  impenetrable  from  the  chisel  of  the  relic- 


134  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

hunter.  Referring  again  to  the  fund,  several  of  our 
citizens  have  given  ;  others  are  only  waiting  to 
be  called  upon.  Ex-Mayor  Henry  Bedlow,  of  New 
port,  on  learning  the  facts  and  of  the  fund,  sent 
immediately  fifty  dollars.  Mr.  Bedlow  has  among 
his  family  deeds  those  of  the  McCreas,  Jane  having 
been  his  great-aunt.  The  treasurer  of  the  Union  Cem 
etery  is  Ashiel  Irving,  cashier  of  the  First  National 
Bank  of  Fort  Edward,  and  he  will  take  pleasure  in 
receiving  contributions  toward  this  end.  In  short, 
Jane  McCrea's  romantic  and  tragic  death  is  of  national 
importance,  and  means  should  be  taken  to  let  the 
public  know  of  the  fund  now  being  raised.  A  certain 
portion  of  the  fund  will  be  kept  in  trust  continually  to 
improve,  adorn,  and  keep  in  order  the  lot."* 


THE  EPISODE  OF  JANE  McCREA. 

(Samuel  Standish  narrator). 
BY  REV.  O.  C.  AuRiNGER.f 

To    A.     W.    Holden,   A.M.,    M.D.,    Scholar,    Physician,    and  Friend,   this 
poem  is  gratefully  dedicated. 

PART  I. 

WE  left  the  camp  behind  us  locked  in  sleep, 
And  marched  with  silent  footsteps  to  the  plain. 

*  For  an  account  of  the  latter  days  of  Lieutenant 
David  Jones,  her  betrothed,  see  Appendix  No.  VI. 

f  Obadiah  Cyrus  Auringer,  one  of  the  most  brilliant 
of  the  later-day  exponents  of  the  poetry  of  nature 
and  nature's  God,  a  most  clever  sonneteer  and  a 
writer  of  the  sweetest,  most  taking,  and  elevating 
verse,  was  born  in  Glens  Falls,  Warren  County,  N.  Y., 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  135 

We  paused  a  moment  at  the  sentry's  hail, 

And  answering  passed  on.     Quitting  the  road — 

June  4th,  1849,  °f  German-French  parents.  He 
was  educated  in  the  local  schools,  studied  litera 
ture  and  science  for  several  years  under  various  tutors, 
and  began  contributing  articles  in  prose  and  verse  to 
New  York  papers  at  the  age  of  eighteen.  Since  then 
his  name  has  become  well  known  to  readers  of  peri 
odical  literature,  and  his  poems  have  been  considered 
worthy  of  place  in  such  standard  works  as  Stedman 
&  Hutchinson's  "  Library  of  American  Literature," 
Sharp's  "  American  Sonnets"  (London),  Crandall's 
"  Representative  Sonnets"  and  Higginson  &  Big- 
elovv's  "  American  Sonnets,"  as  well  as  many  other 
collections  of  high  standing  and  similar  nature.  He 
entered  the  United  States  Navy  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
two,  and  for  three  years  was  attached  to  the  "  Worces 
ter"  on  the  West  Indian  station,  where  he  studied  life 
in  the  tropics,  and  contributed  to  journals  North  and 
South.  He  left  the  navy  in  the  summer  of  1875,  and 
spent  several  subsequent  years  on  the  family  estate  on 
Glen  Lake,  Warren  County — as  he  says,  "  cultivating 
strawberries  and  poetry  with  considerable  success." 
He  was  married  in  1875  to  Mrs.  Eva  Hendryx. 
While  at  Glen  Lake  he  issued  two  volumes  of  poetry, 
contributed  to  leading  papers  and  magazines,  and 
began  the  study  of  theology,  preparatory  to  entering 
the  ministry.  He  was  ordained  in  1890  as  a  minister 
in  the  Presbyterian  church.  He  removed  to  North- 
wood,  N.  Y.,  where  he  published  another  volume 
of  verse.  He  was  successful  in  his  chosen  profession, 
built  up  the  church,  and  was,  in  1893,  called  to  the 
Third  Presbyterian  church  of  Troy,  N.  Y.,  over  which 
he  is  now  pastor.  Mr.  Auringer  has  published  the  fol- 


136  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

The  broad  way  from  the  fortress  leading  north — 
We  fell  in  file  along  a  narrow  path 
That  lay  across  the  plain  and  river  marsh, 
O'ertopped  a  bluff  by  shaggy  growths  o'erspread, 
And  crowned  with  pines  and  silence,  leading  thence 
Still  on  amid  the  wildwood's  tangled  glooms, 
Straight  toward  an  ancient  blockhouse  on  the  hill. 
There  lay  the  posts  we  were  to  seize  and  keep 
'Gainst  scout  or  foray  from  the  British  line, 
Encamped  upon  the  high  plains  to  the  north. 

Eighteen  good  men  we  were,  armed  woodman-like 
With  musket,  knife  and  hatchet,  every  man 
A  chosen  soldier  seasoned  in  the  wars — 
Sons  of  the  sword,  all  eager  for  the  work, — 
Led  by  a  dark  lieutenant,  silent,  stern, 
Yet  true  as  steel  and  loved  by  every  man — 
The  trustiest  in  the  camp. 

Without  a  word 

We  moved  in  line  along  the  narrow  path, 
Crossed  the  flat  plain,  crossed  the  low  river  marsh, 
And  steeped  in  moonshine  and  hot  airs  of  night, 
Set  knees  against  the  rough  acclivity, 
And  gave  ourselves  to  the  wild  wilderness. 

lowing  volumes  of  poetry:  "  Voice  of  a  Shell,"  1883; 
"Scythe  and  Sword,"  1887;  "Heart  of  the  Golden 
Roan,"  1891.  He  has  now  in  preparation  for  early 
publication  the  "  Episode  of  Jane  McCrea,"  a  nar 
rative  poem  ;  and  a  volume  of  minor  verse. — Sketch 
by  J.  A.  HOLDEN,  of  Glens  Falls,  N.  Y. 

This  poem  was  originally  published  in  the  Glens 
Falls  Messenger,  of  December,  1888,  a  few  years  before 
Dr.  Holden's  death.  A  sketch  of  this  lamented  gentle 
man,  by  his  son,  J.  A.  Holden,  will  be  found  in  Ap 
pendix  No.  XI. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  137 

We  climbed  the  steep  ascent  with  guns  atrail, 

Picking  our  steps  among  the  roots  and  stones 

That  hid  along  the  pathway.     Now  and  then 

A  musket  breech  would  clink  against  a  stone, 

Sending  a  sudden  thrill  along  the  file  ; 

And  then  again  some  careless-falling  foot 

Would  slip  and  bring  a  soldier  to  his  knee, 

Or  send  him  reeling  sidelong  from  the  path, 

Where  he  would  catch  and  cling  by  branch  or  limb, 

And  sway  his  body  back  in  line  again, 

And  onward  as  before.     Then  suddenly 

Some  man  would  stop  stock  still  along  the  file, 

Smote  in  the  face  by  some  lithe  hazel  rod 

That,  carried  out  of  place  and  springing  back, 

Stung  like  a  whip.     Then  would  an  oath  break  forth, 

Strangled  at  birth  ;  and  followed  in  its  turn 

A  laugh  or  joke  in  smothered  undertones 

At  his  expense  who  suffered  from  the  blow — 

Danger  just  seasoned  by  a  spice  of  fun, 

And  no  one  made  the  worse,  so  all  was  still. 

For  we  were  men  trained  not  to  utter  sound 

Above  necessity  when  foes  were  nigh 

Like  those  that  hemmed  us  now.     Because  one  day 

While  hunting  deer  among  the  mountain  glens 

Round  old  Ticonderoga  in  the  north, 

And  lying  hushed  and  breathless  with  suspense, 

Hid  in  a  rocky  hollow,  while  our  foes 

Drew  ever  closer  round  their  secret  snares, 

An  Irishman,  o'erfull  of  bubbling  fun 

And  mirth, — the  wit  and  spirit  of  the  camp, — 

Possessed  by  some  rash  madness  of  the  brain, 

Let  loose  his  tongue  with  such  garrulity 

That  all  the  woods  heard,  and  within  an  hour 

Revealed  our  hiding-place,  and  brought  the  foe 

Around  us,  roaring  like  a  rush  of  wolves. 


138  The  Burgm/ne  Ballads. 

And  in  the  wildvvood  battle  waged  that  day 

From  tree  to  tree  along  that  rugged  ground, 

A  feathered  arrow  from  a  warrior's  bow 

Pierced  both  poor  Michael's  cheeks,   transfixed  the 

tongue, 
And  silenced  it  forever. 

O'er  the  plain 

Two  hills  arose,  abrupt  and  difficult 
To  master — one  above  the  other  piled 
Like  cloud  on  mountain,  blotting  out  the  stars 
And  sky-gleams  on  the  north.     And  on  the  crown 
Of  the  first  height  lay  shelved  a  little  plot, 
By  jealous  fairies  stolen  from  the  wilds, 
Gone  bare  of  trees,  but  richly  carpeted 
With  soft  green  moss  and  silent,  and  it  lay 
Walled  three  sides  round  by  netted  hazelwood 
Impenetrable.     And  there  by  the  hill's  sheer  brow 
Where  mingled  earth  with  rock  sprang  one  great  pine, 
Whose  black  bulk  carved  on  darkness  towered  in  air 
In  rugged  perpendicular,  and  thence 
Branching,  spread  broad  a  dark  green  canopy, 
Mysterious,  o'er  the  moss-soft  forest  floor, 
And  down  amid  its  roots  a  forest  spring, 
Alive  and  cool,  broke  through  the  leaves  and  moss, 
Filling  its  shadowy  basin  to  the  brim, 
And  then  o'erflowing,  broke  o'er  the  hill's  brow, 
Streaking  the  hillside  with  a  vein  of  pearl. 
This  was  the  ancient  pine,  and  this  the  spring, 
And  here  the  spot  renowned  in  all  the  world, 
And  here  we  halted,  breathing  hard,  and  here, 
With  studied  charge  and  order  from  the  chief, 
Low  spoken  in  the  dark,  distinct  and  short, 
I  took  my  stand  beneath  the  ancient  pine 
To  watch  till  morning.     And  my  friends  filed  on, 
Vague  bulks  in  darkness,  laboring  up  the  path, 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  139 

Across  the  plot,  and  up  the  next  ascent, 
On  toward  the  ruined  blockhouse  on  the  hill. 

A  long  and  lonesome  watch  beneath  that  tree — 

Long  watch  and  lonesome ;  wide  in  darkness  spread 

The  night-lone  landscape  round,  behind,  before — 

A  wilderness  gone  dreaming,  with  the  moon, 

Stars,  silent-pacing  clouds  and  stealthy  airs 

Alert  above  it ;  and  below,  alert, 

Their  fellow-guard  and  watchman  of  the  night, 

I,  with  my  weapon  and  a  lonely  heart, 

But  unafraid,  kept  watch,  obedient, 

For  our  dear  country's  sake  and  liberty. 

The  night  hung  slumberous,  but  one  must  keep 
His  senses  bound  about  him — no  light  charge, 
With  naught  to  keep  him  wakeful  but  to  watch, 
Just  watch  and  wait  the  sluggish  hours  away, 
And  listen.     And  to  move  beyond  a  small 
Circle  well  worn  of  safe  and  level  ground, 
To  stir  about  and  feel  one's  self  at  large— 
Strictly  forbid  !    To  make  companionship 
With  one's  own  pleasant  inward  impulses 
By  singing  songs,  as  soldiers  love  to  do, 
Or  whistling  to  call  up  the  merry  thoughts, 
To  charm  an  idle  watch — most  perilous ! 
Our  foes  were  wary  ears,  and  there  was  cause 
To  fear  some  few  red  warriors  from  the  camp 
Above  us  lurked  about  the  fort  that  night. 

A  soldier's  mind  hoards  small  philosophy 
Among  its  treasures,  woo  it  as  he  will ; 
A  life  of  shocks  breaks  up  the  course  of  thought, 
And  checks  it  midway.     Contemplation,  shy, 
Recluse  and  sensitive,  starts  from  the  sound 
Of  war's  oncoming  murmur  militant, 


140  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

And  'mid  the  roar  of  his  impetuous  rush 

Gathers  her  things  about  her  daintily, 

And  vanishes  ; — Guard  !  is  the  soldier's  watchword. 

And  yet  he  has  his  fancies,  often  sweet, 

Dreams  dreams,  and  has  ambitions  of  his  own, 

Most  welcome,  though  so  oft  they  come  to  naught; 

He  has  his  store  of  stirring  memories 

Laid  up  through  years  of  strange  experience, 

Of  camps  and  marches,  bloody  battle-fields, 

Shipwrecks  at  sea,  and  perils  on  the  shore, 

Hair-breadth  escapes — all  memorable  things 

To  lighten  up  the  long  hours  of  a  watch. 

All  these  my  mind  tossed  o'er,  then  fled  away, 

Heart-piloted  beyond  the  wilderness, 

And  visited  beside  the  eastern  sea 

A  humble  fisher  town  'twixt  sands  and  crags 

Clustered  apart,  a  butt  for  bluff  sea  winds, 

And  salt-sharp  storms  hurled  inland  from  the  main. 

There  stood  a  house  I  knew  of,  with  its  door 

Opening  upon  the  wild  sea  waves,  with  sand, 

And  wreck,  and  waste  of  many  a  stormy  tide 

Spread  near  it.     And  I  saw  upon  the  beach 

My  three  sweet  motherless  children  hard  at  play 

With  all  their  little  sea  things — fairy  boats 

Freighted  with  fairy  thoughts  imaginative 

Launched  bravely  from  their  hands,  with  mingled  cries 

Of  joy  and  apprehension — "  See,  she  floats  !" 

"  She's  down !  she's  gone  !"     "  Nay,  there  she  comes 

again  ! 

How  sweetly  she  sails  on  now  !     We  will  call 
Her  name  the  Lucky  Sailor,  for  good  luck." 
And  then  they  wave  their  hands  and  cry  in  the  wind  : 
"  Luck  to  the  Lucky  Sailor  !"  o'er  the  foam. 

Back  flashed  my  thought,  and  then  forth  out  of  earth, 
Or  visionary  starlight,  airy  space, 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  141 

Or  fairyland  of  beauty  none  knows  where, 

A  maid's  sweet  face  rose  on  my  heart,  distinct 

With  light  more  real  than  reality, 

And  warm  as  coming  sunrise  when  far  off 

It  lingers  half  reluctant.     Ah,  such  grace  ! 

Fairer  for  loveliness  than  eye  beholds 

Ever  amid  these  desert  solitudes 

Forsaken  of  fair  things  !     And  it  appeared, 

Arrayed  for  wonder  and  for  loveliness, 

In  one  long  downward  flood  of  yellow  hair, 

Like  that  which  flows  'mid  webs  of  charmed  romance, 

Magical  tales  and  legends  all  forlorn 

Imagined  in  old  time,  to  net  the  heart, 

And  bear  it  happy  captive  through  the  tale. 

Whereat  my  lips  obedient  spoke  aloud 

A  name  in  the  darkness  with  such  vehemence 

As  made  me  start  alarmed,  and  cast  around 

Eyes  apprehensive.     But  the  loyal  night, 

Kindly  discreet,  gave  not  the  sound  away 

To  alien  senseless  ears.     It  was  a  name 

Since  famous  in  the  annals  of  the  land 

That  heard  it  cried  round  its  circumference, 

Till  it  became  a  sign  to  conjure  with, 

A  watchword  and  a  symbol.     It  had  power 

So  that  a  banner  blazoned  with  that  name, 

And  borne  from  town  to  town  through  the  broad  land, 

Might  by  its  magic  gather  to  itself 

How  many  a  thousand  gallant  hearts  and  swords, 

Fast  pledged  to  all  heroic  sacrifice, 

For  vengeance  and  our  land's  dear  liberties! 

And  in  that  name  deeds  deemed  incredible, 

Opposed  to  all  the  precedents  of  war, 

Were  yearly  done  and  recorded  by  fame, 

Until  the  land  breathed  free,  and  we  beheld 

Our  flag  triumphant  wave  from  every  hill. 


142  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

And  in  that  name  what  individual  acts 

Have  been  accomplished  !     I  have  known  the  soul, 

Lukewarm  in  hope  and  courage,  take  quick  fire, 

And  burn  to  noble  death  beneath  its  spell. 

And  I  have  known  the  base  and  dissolute — 

The  wretch  that  fought  for  plunder,  hardened  men, 

Cold  soldiers  by  profession,  shallow  souls — 

Burlesques  of  heroes,  lions  in  the  camp, 

And  lambs  in  battle — I  have  known  all  these 

To  change  their  very  nature  at  that  name, 

And  in  the  day  of  opportunity 

Prove  Romans  all  ;  and  terrible  in  fight, 

Heap  fame  and  honor  and  proud  victory 

Upon  themselves  and  country ! 

But  these  things 

Were  yet  unknown,  unborn.     The  burning  deed 
Yet  lingered  that  would  consecrate  that  name, 
Baptize  it  in  warm  blood,  and  send  it  forth 
On  its  miraculous  mission  through  the  world. 
As  yet  the  name  of  maiden  Jane  McCrea 
Was  but  a  synonym  of  beauty,  grace, 
And  worth,  and  all  things  rare  and  excellent 
In  maidenhood's  domain.     And  in  that  realm 
She  ruled  supreme  and  only.     It  was  she 
Who  reigned  the  belle  of  all  the  border  land, 
The  boast  and  toast  of  all  the  gallant  souls 
In  camp  and  garrison,  the  old  man's  cheer, 
The  light  of  every  young  man's  heart  and  eyes  ; 
A  queenly  creature,  governing  her  world 
By  right  supreme  of  beauty  and  excellence, 
Who  moved  among  her  people  royally, 
Regarded  now  with  fond  solicitude, 
Because  'twas  whispered  that  she  was  in  love — 
Love  makes  a  maiden  sacred,  so  they  say. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  143 

Among  the  people  there's  a  story  told 

About  a  soldier  wounded  in  the  war, 

Who  fled  through  weary  leagues  of  wilderness 

'Mid  wild  and  secret  perils  of  the  woods, 

Hunger  and  beasts  and  foes  inveterate, 

Seeking  the  camp  ;  and  how  at  length  he  reached  it — 

Only  to  lay  him  down  a  broken  man 

In  mind  and  body  in  a  hospital, 

Along  with  more  of  war's  unfortunates, 

To  be  born  back  with  pain  ;  and  how  our  Jane, 

Then  but  a  tender  bud  of  maidenhood, 

From  sacred  pity  that  he  had  no  friend 

To  nurse  him  in  his  sickness,  took  the  place 

Of  the  restoring  angel  by  his  bed, 

And  came  and  went  a  sunbeam  in  the  gloom 

Of  that  dark  hospital ;  and  how  at  length, 

Amid  the  feeble  glimmerings  of  his  mind, 

He  knew  her  face  alone  among  the  many 

That  passed  before  him  daily.     And  'tis  said 

That  when  the  lamp  of  mind  burned  clear  once  more 

And  he  could  rise  and  walk  with  growing  strength, 

And  feel  his  heart  returning  through  her  care, 

From  long  beholding  her  he  came  to  love  her  ; — 

The  gentle  looks,  the  touch  of  soothing  hands, 

And  all  the  nameless  magic  of  a  voice 

Attuned  to  sympathy,  so  wrought  upon   him 

That  when  he  rose  again,  a  man  restored, 

His  heart  had  all  gone  forth  to  the  restorer. 

And  then  they  tell  how  he  delayed  to  speak 

The  passion  that  possessed  him,  hiding  it 

And  hoarding  it  for  awe  and  sacredness, 

Apart  within  his  breast ;  till  learning  late 

By  chance  report  of  love  already  pledged 

By  her  to  some  first  lover  long  preferred, 

In  manly  silence,  but  with  broken  looks, 


144:  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

He  went  away,  leaving  due  recompense 
Of  gratitude  for  all  the  faithfulness 
That  wrought  his  restoration.     So  he  passed 
From  living  sight  and  knowledge  of  his  friends, 
And  half  from  their  remembrance  as  the  days, 
Burdened  with  anxious  cares  of  war,  went  by, 
And  strife  of  factions.     Then  at  last  came  one 
Who  brought  the  tidings  of  a  battle  fought 
Out  somewhere  in  the  West,  who  told  the  tale 
That  when  'twas  o'er  and  won,  among  the  slain 
They  found  a  soldier,  propped  against  a  wall, 
Still  grasping  his  red  blade,  and  round  his  feet, 
Fallen  in  a  horrid  heap,  full  many  a  foe 
Lay  weltering,  gashed  with  many  a  fearful  wound, 
As  from  a  madman's  fury.     And  they  found, 
When  they  approached  to  bear  him  from  that  post 
Of  death  and  valor  to  a  soldier's  grave, 
Pressed  to  dead  lips  with  war-ensanguined  hand 
A  lock  of  golden  hair,  that  could  have  grown 
Qn  but  one  lovely  head  in  all  the  world. 

Ah,  such  a  girl !  Ah  me,  had  I  been  young ! — 

Had  I  been  young  and  free,  as  once  I'd  been, 

With  all  the  virgin  hunger  of  the  heart, 

And  all  the  headlong  fire  and  fantasy 

That  heavenly  beauty  kindles  in  the  brain, 

What  soul  can  tell  what  might  have  been  ?  Ah  well, 

Her  heart  had  built  its  nest  in  another  tree ! 

Her  smile,  that  would  have  overflowed  with  light 

Of  glory  and  gladness  some  proud  patriot's  soul, 

Love-darkened  all  for  her,  had  lit  amiss 

Upon  a  Royalist!     And  truly  'twas 

A  time  of  strange  affections,  lives  perplexed, 

And  lives  run  all  to  randonr!     Ere  the  war 

Broke  o'er  our  land  for  life  and  liberty, 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  145 

While  peace  prolific  tended  at  the  plough, 

And  heaped  the  grain  in  autumn  well  content, 

Walking  thus  largely  liberal  through  the  year, 

A  youth,  young,  gay,  and  handsome,  choicely  bred, 

With  mind  and  manners  shaped  in  city  schools, 

Whose  stock  had  taken  root  in  border  soil, 

And  flourished  into  fair  prosperity 

With  lands  and  cattle,  saw  our  forest  rose 

Brightening  the  borders  of  his  daily  path, 

And  stopped,  admired  and  plucked  it.   And  the  maid, 

Whose  kin  were  friends  of  freedom,  first  of  those 

Who  voiced  in  the  assemblies  of  the  people 

Those  thoughts  deemed  treason  by  the  power  o'er  seas 

Ruling  our  land,  became  his  promised  bride — 

And  he  a  Royalist !  By  what  mad  chance, 

Or  what  wild  tossing  of  the  dice  of  fate, 

While  wild  war-spirits  laughed,  that  stroke  befell, 

Predicting  strange  confusion  in  the  event, 

And  necessary  vengeance — who  can  say  ! 

Were  there  not  gallant  fellows  mad  to  woo, 

And  just  as  gallant  fellows  mad  to  win, 

Among  her  near  and  loyal  countrymen, 

Who  blessed  the  ground  she  trod  on,  air  she  breathed, 

And  made  her  queen  and  goddess  of  their  thoughts, 

That  she  should  cast  her  treasure  all  away 

Upon  a  counterfeit  of  royalty, 

That  royalty  despises  in  its  heart— 

A  foolish  boy  mad  for  a  uniform 

Of  scarlet — scarlet  as  the  hue  of  shame 

That  mantled  honest  faces  when  his  act 

Of  treason  stirred  the  border  !     Many  a  curse 

Lit  on  the  act  and  actor,  out  of  lips 

Thin  drawn  with  bitterness ;  and  many  a  brow 

Knit  hard,  and  many  an  eye  flashed  sullen  fire; 

And  many  a  nail  bit  flesh  of  palm,  as  men 


14:6  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Thought  on  his  deed  and  its  significance — 

The  torture  and  the  peril  of  the  time, 

Chiefly  endured  because  of  treachery, 

Betrayals  by  false  friends,  who  underground 

Set  traps  to  catch  their  neighbors  unawares, 

Invoking  all  the  arms  of  foreign  foes, 

Leagued  with  the  hatchet  and  the  incessant  torch 

Of  pitiless  heathen  for  our  overthrow. 

How  we  remembered  all  the  suffering, 

The  ceaseless  roar  of  war  waves  round  our  shores, 

Breeding  anxieties,  reports  extreme 

Of  battle  and  disaster  day  by  day, 

On  sea  and  land,  and  all  the  multitude 

Of  harrying  disquiets  poured  upon  us  ! 

At  home,  the  frequent  midnight  burnings,  raids, 

And  sudden  slaughters,  and  a  land  laid  waste, 

Fast  slipping  back  to  savagery,  with  life 

Cheapened  to  competition  with  the  brutes, 

Our  fellow-sufferers.     And  everywhere, 

Suspended  over  every  household  hearth, 

Forever  in  the  trembling  thoughts  and  dreams 

Of  helpless  grandsire,  maiden,  wife  and  babe, 

Scaring  the  dove  of  peace  from  every  home, 

The  fearful  image  of  the  tomahawk  ! 

Was  it  so  strange,  remembering  such  things, 

A  fire  of  hate  should  spring  from  this  small  spark 

Dropped  on  such  fuel  !     Then  to  think  that  one 

Who  bartered  honor  for  a  piece  of  tape 

To  wear  upon  his  shoulder  should  have  won 

And  held  so  sweet  a  treasure,  'twas  enough 

To  roil  men's  thoughts,  and  stir  their  passions  up 

To  protestation — powerless  enough, 

Because  love  makes  a  mockery  of  us  all. 

But  while  they  flung  him  hate  and  burning  scorn 

As  his  right  portion,  still  they  loved  the  maid, 

Because  she  was  so  rare  and  beautiful. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads* 

But  by  and  by  the  morning  !     'Twas  the  pipe 

Of  bird,  I  think,  that  first  announced  the  dawn 

From  some  near  tree — a  sweet  and  slender  strain, 

Inquisitive,  as  if  the  dear  musician 

Were  doubtful  if  he  caught  the  scent  of  dawn, 

And  hesitated  in  his  song.     But  now 

Upon  that  note  pipe  after  pipe  broke  forth 

In  choral  harmony  from  all  the  hill, 

Until  a  thousand  joyous  voices  blent 

Were  making  fairy  music  to  the  dawn  ! 

It  ceased ;  and  then  appeared  a  narrow  line 

Of  mellow  light  low  on  the  eastern  sky, 

Beyond  the  distant  hill  lines  as  they  lay 

Crouched  on  the  horizon,  silent,  saturnine, 

And  then  a  deeper  glow  warmed  the  same  hills, 

That  rose,  unmasked,  and  showed  their  visages 

Beaming  with  genial  light.     And  the  same  splendor 

Made  pale  the  lustre  of  the  summer  stars 

Sprinkled  along  the  east,  and  sent  the  darkness, 

Broken  and  pierced  with  many  a  kindling  shaft, 

In  broad  retreat,  until  the  orient 

Shone  with  red  glory,  though  the  sun  delayed. 

The  heavens  waxed  warm  and  bright,  but  all  the  earth 

Slept,  in  that  latter  deep  and  dreamless  slumber 

That  aye  precedes  the  waking.     Silent  all 

The  endless  forest  lay,  except  perchance, 

Unceasing,  as  the  sweet  breeze  played,  arose 

The  sigh  and  murmur  of  a  million  leaves 

Shaken  o'erhead  ;  the  hum  of  rushing  waves  ; 

And  sounding  on  in  endless  monotone, 

The  surge  and  rumble  of  the  cataract 

Far  northward.     And  below  along  the  plain 

Reposed  the  fortress  ramparts  coiled  in  dusk, 

Girdled  with  scattered  huts ;  and  on  the  right 

Beneath  the  walls  the  eager  Hudson  flowed, 


148  The  jBurgoyne  Ballads. 

Marching  with  all  his  thousands  from  the  hills, 

With  rustle  and  murmur  of  his  million  feet, 

Passing  unseen  beneath  his  cloud  of  mist 

That  overhung  him,  seen  for  many  a  mile 

Tracking  the  forest  with  a  trail  of  fleece. 

But  brighter  grew  the  red  along  the  sky, 

And  thinner  grew  the  veil  that  wrapped  the  woods, 

As  marched  the  light  to  westward  o'er  the  world  ; 

And  then  a  bow  of  ruddy  fire  appeared, 

Crowning  the  far-off  topmost  eastern  hill, 

And  in  a  moment  o'er  the  wilderness 

Broke  the  broad  sun  ! — a  swimming  fount  of  fire, 

Pouring  its  streams  across  the  solitudes, 

Kindling  the  world  to  beauty  with  his  blaze. 

His  rays  fired  up  the  fog  along  the  stream, 

And  set  the  water  sparkling,  gilt  the  sands, 

Hung  webs  of  yellow  gauze  about  the  hills, 

And  woke  the  merry  music  of  the  birds 

In  thicket  deep  and  treetop  everywhere. 

Oh,  'twas  a  sight  worth  one  long  watch  to  see, 

That  world-old  battle  of  the  day  with  night, 

In  which  the  day  is  glorious  conqueror ! 

And  while  I  gazed,  and  silent  blessed  the  light 

For  all  its  bounteous  life  and  cheerfulness, 

A  lengthened  drum-pulse  throbbed  along  the  plain, 

That  chorused  with  my  heart-pulse  pleasantly. 

It  ceased.     A  wreath  fantastic  of  fierce  smoke  , 

Rolled  from  the  fort's  low  eastern  parapet, 

And  lo  !  the  fort  spoke  from  her  early  gun, 

Telling  the  world  of  morning !     And  the  sound, 

Recoiling,  passed,  and  fell  among  the  hills 

Crashing;  as  when  a  storm  cloud  from  the  west 

Opens  its  first  hoarse  volley  o'er  the  hills, 

That  cracking  rends  the  arches  of  the  woods, 

Making  the  heart  leap  up  in  bird  and  beast 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  149 

And  man,  and  striking  silent  all  the  trees 
In  all  their  leaves.     And  then  in  mimicry, 
A  hundred  echoes,  seizing  on  the  theme, 
Ran  babbling  it  the  forest  arches  through, 
Hither  and  thither  flying  through  the  wilds, 
With  voices  blowing  ever  faint  and  fainter, 
Far  off  and  farther,  dying  on  the  wind 
That  blew  from  out  the  solitudes. 

For  me, 
Yet  one  long  hour  before  relief  would  come. 

I  leaned  upon  my  weapon,  looking  down 
Upon  the  narrow  vista  of  the  plain, 
Where  war  had  drawn  a  furrow  of  dark  earth, 
And  planted  it  with  cannon.     There  had  men 
Reared  for  themselves  rude  homes  in  which  to  dwell, 
And  till  their  narrow  strip  of  backward  soil, 
And  hunt  and  fish  and  barter,  nestled  there 
Beneath  the  fostering  pinions  of  the  fort ; 
Each  cottage  with  its  tributary  lawn, 
Beds  of  rare  roses,  yellow  marigolds, 
And  lilacs  shadowing  doorways  with  their  green 
Blossoms  just  fallen — haunts  of  friendly  birds, 
That  made  their  homes  in  summer  'mid  the  boughs. 
I  saw  the  people  stirring  out  of  doors, 
About  their  morning  tasks — a  pleasant  sight, 
As  I  remember  how  it  moved  me  then- 
Some  bringing  wood  to  light  their  morning  fires, 
And  some  with  yoke  and  bucket,  toilsomely, 
That  brought  fresh  water  from  the  river's  brink  ; 
Or  driving  forth  their  cattle  'mid  the  dew 
To  some  deep  forest  pasture  out  of  sight. 
I  saw  the  soldiers  moving  in  the  fort, 
A  few  from  cabined  quarters  just  emerged, 
Greeting  the  morning  from  the  low  dark  walls ; 


150  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Half-naked  gunners  on  the  parapets, 

Swabbing  away  like  demons  in  the  light 

Of  the  red  sun  ;  and  creeping  on  his  post, 

The  sleepy  watch  with  gun  and  bayonet ; 

Or  servants  from  the  stables  leading  forth, 

With  halters  slack,  the  train  of  thirsty  beasts 

To  water  where  the  river  lapped  the  sand. 

And  I  remember  most  especially 

How  good  the  cook  house  smoke  seemed  to  my  eyes, 

And  how  the  thought  of  breakfast  cheered  me  up, 

And  all  the  genial  mess-room  company 

One  has  in  barracks. 

But  in  seeing  this 

I  saw  not  all.     And  truly  such  a  morning — 
So  flush,  so  rich — was  pledge  of  fairer  things 
Than  visions  of  rough,  kindly  cottagers 
And  war-stained  soldiers — something  for  a  crown 
To  this  fair  morning  kingdom.     And  that  pledge 
Was  now  redeemed.     Upon  the  southern  edge 
Of  the  high  forest  wall  that  girt  the  camp, 
A  something,  charmed  with  airy  grace  and  motion, 
Something  akin  to  sunrise  and  fresh  dews, 
And  winds,  and  blowing  roses  of  the  wilds — 
A  waft  of  morning — crossed  my  longing  sight, 
Brightly  advancing.     Where  the  river  waves, 
Penned  in  a  cove  that  balked  their  onward  rush, 
Like  sheep  pressed  in  confusion  and  complained, 
Striking  the  sand  and  shrinking  in  recoil, 
Pressing  back  on  their  fellows  suddenly, 
As  if  they  feared  to  tread  the  shining  sands 
That  bore  their  foot-prints  of  unnumbered  years, 
I  saw  it  break  the  shadows  of  the  wood, 
And  dawn  another  sunrise  on  the  camp, 
Just  touching  it  in  passing.     Where  the  fort 


Th&  Burgoyne  Ballads.  151 

Thrust  out'  a  threatening  angle  toward  the  stream, 

It  lightly  turned  and  took  the  narrow  path — 

The  path  that  we  had  taken — moving  on 

Across  the  plain,  across  the  river  marsh, 

Threading  the  gleaming  ribbon  of  the  path 

Dry  shod,  as  light  and  dainty  as  a  fawn 

That  trips  the  forest  pasture.     And  I  leaned 

And  watched  it  hushed,  as  one  so  often  will 

Who  stands  and  cranes  his  neck,  and  holds  his  breath, 

To  note  the  outcome  of  some  ventured  guess, 

As  if  'twere  life  or  death.      And  so  my  heart 

Laid  wager  with  my  eyes  who  this  might  be 

Coming  so  lightly.     'Twas  a  woman's  form 

Coming  so  sweetly — sight  in  soldier's  eyes 

Most  prized  of  all  in  this  great  wilderness, 

Because  so  rare  and  transient.     On  it  came 

Until  it  reached  a  cabin  reared  of  logs 

Piled  roughly  in  their  bark,  and  covered  o'er 

With  faded  forest  branches  that  crouched  low 

Within  the  outer  circle  of  low  huts— 

A  lonely  little  dwelling,  with  its  door 

Swung  open  to  the  morning,  and  a  curl 

Of  friendly  smoke  above  its  chimney  stack. 

And  to  its  door  the  maid  of  morning  came, 

And  paused.     And  from  the  cabin  came  a  dame 

Of  stanch  and  portly  frame,  and  courteously 

Took  the  fair  morning  stranger  by  the  hand, 

And  led  her  in  ;  and  both  were  lost  to  sight. 

They  passed  away  from  sight,  but  ere  they  went 

A  breath  of  laughter  floated  up  to  me, 

Upon  the  air  of  morning  sweetly  borne. 

And  then  my  heart  laid  claim  upon  my  eyes 

For  one  more  wager  won — 'twas  lovely  Jane, 

Even  as  my  heart  had  said !    And  this  was  she— 

The  famous,  lovely,  luckless  Jane  McCrea, 


152  The  Burgoyne  Ballafa 

-.jj-~-. 

Whose  face  had  set  such  martial  hearts  aflame, 
Whose  mournful  fate  has  set  the  world  on  fire ! 
And  I  was  glad  at  heart  to  have  her  near, 
And  blessed  the  sunny  morning  in  my  soul, 
Praised  the  soft  wind,  the  flashing  river,  and 
The  songs  of  birds  and  forms  of  fellow-men, 
And  all  the  forest  scene.     But  suddenly 
All  gladness  died  within  me  as  my  soul, 
By  some  mysterious  instinct  like  a  hound, 
Caught  a  fleet  scent  of  evil  in  the  air, 
Far  off  or  hovering.     There  was  lovely  Jane, 
Arrayed  as  for  her  bridal,  with  the  sun 
Seeking  a  Tory's  house — I  knew  the  dame, 
A  brave  Scotch  lady,  but  in  sentiment 
A  Royalist  as  rank  as  ever  breathed.* 
Here  was  our  maiden  nested  in  that  lodge 
Of  treason,  with  her  lover  hovering  nigh, 
Hawk-like  and  watchful,  in  the  English  camp, 
Perhaps  prepared  to  march  with  horse  and  foot 
Against  her  friends  and  mine,  the  feeble  few 
Who  held  the  fort,  for  'twas  a  conquered  land. 
What  fate  had  lured  her  forth  at  such  a  time 
Of  watch  and  danger  ?     Was  it  possible 
She  dreamed  to  quit  the  shelter  of  the  camp, 
And  home  and  friends,  and  all  the  gallant  guard 
Of  hearts  and  weapons  leagued  in  her  defence, 
For  that  dark  league  of  wilderness,  beset 
By  such  two  well-known  dangers,  all  for  a  sight 
Of  one  mad  boy  in  uniform  ?     Alas  ! 
If  she  had  only  known — had  only  known  ! 
If  she  had  only  kept  at  home  that  day  ! 
But  there  too  late  was  she  ! 

Then  like  a  peal 
Of  trumpet  to  a  soldier  in  his  dreams, 

*  Mrs.  McNeil,  a  cousin  of  General  Simon  Fraser. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  153 

There  spake  our  foes  !  There  came  a  deadly  crash 

Of  rifles  from  the  summit  of  the  hill, 

A  burst  of  smoke,  and  then  a  cry  so  wild 

And  savage  that  the  heart  stopped  at  the  sound 

An  instant  in  its  beating,  and  then  leapt, 

Making  the  brain  swim.     Twas  the  battle  shout 

Of  twice  a  score  of  savage  enemies 

Launching  from  ambush  in  a  dim  ravine 

That  split  the  upper  hilltop  with  a  gash 

From  some  old  torrent  stroke,  now  flowing  o'er 

With  a  roaring  tide  of  red  ferocity 

Upon  my  hapless  comrades  of  the  guard. 

Downward  the  cloud  of  battle  swept  the  hill, 
Shooting  its  smothered  lightnings  as  it  went, 
With  thunder  and  sound  of  voices  wildly  blent, 
Fierce   yells,  and    short   sharp   cries   from    here   and 

there, 

Where  a  shot  struck  the  life,  and  laid  on  earth 
A  soldier  quivering.     And  on  its  edge 
Now  and  again  lithe  figures  sprang  to  sight 
And  vanished  'mong  the  tree  boles  here  and  there ; 
And  then  there  passed  the  fleeting  pantomime 
Of  clenched  and  struggling  forms  that  rolled  on  earth, 
With  nimble  limbs  like  serpents  writhed  and  tossed, 
Knit  in  the  last  great  grapple  breast  to  breast. 

The  first  live  thing  I  saw  break  from  that  cloud 

Was  one  poor  soldier  fleeing  from  his  foes, 

Wild-eyed,  bareheaded,  wounded,  weaponless, 

All  blind  with  blood  and  terror,  leaping  out 

From  the  upper  bluff,  who  fell,  and  gathering,  came, 

Now  stumbling  more  than   running,  toward  the  spot 

Where  I  stood  roused  and  watching. 

On  he  came, 


154:  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

But  a  clear  streak  of  fire  broke  from  above 

And  downward,  and  he  stopped  with  staring  eyes 

A  moment,  and  then  dropped  a  clod  beside  me, 

Pierced  through  the  breast ;  and  at  his  fall  his  foe, 

A  tall  fantastic  warrior  grim  as  hate, 

Launched  at  him  from  the  bluff,  with  pealing  cries 

Of  triumph,  waving  high  a  glancing  blade, 

To  bear  away  the  trophy  of  his  deed. 

He  never  reached  it !     Swifter  than  the  lightning 

My  weapon  rose  and  spoke,  and  at  the  word 

Down  rolled  the  heathen  howling,  clutching  earth, 

And  showering  leaves  in  agony — a  stroke 

Well  struck,  and  yet,  alas  !  the  only  one 

That  fate  permitted  me  to  deal  that  day. 

For  lo  !  the  hanging  bluff  was  all  alive 

With  gliding  forms  and  fearful  visages, 

And  streaming  scalp-locks  !    Then  I  knew  in  soul 

The  fatal  issue  of  that  dark  surprise, 

And  fight  so  quickly  finished — naught,  alas  ! 

Save  sudden  death  or  capture  to  my  friends, 

Whose  weapons   spoke  no  more,  whose  shouts  were 

still, 

Whose  enemies  in  insolent  victory 
Ranged  everywhere. 

One  instant  desperate 
Wherein  to  fight  or  flee — to  die  or  flee- 
That  was  the  choice.     With  madness  in  my  soul, 
Yet  loving  life,  I  laid  my  gun  aside, 
That  death  to  many  afoeman,  and  my  friend 
Trusted  and  true,  gift  of  my  ancestor, 
Whose  deeds  in  former  wars  had  made  it  famous — 
Famed  weapon,  famous  fighter ;  cast  beside  it 
My  oxhorn  flask,  and  leathern  pouch  with  balls ; 
Plucked  out  the  heavy  war-axe  from  my  belt, 
Grasped  firm  my  knife,  and  glancing  everywhere 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  155 

For  lurking  foes,  slid  snake-like  down  the  path, 

Brushing  the  foliage  lightly  ;  then  leapt  out, 

Long  like  a  hunted  deer,  when  stretch  the  hounds 

Red-mouthed  upon  his  track.     And  running  raised 

My  voice,  and  rang  aloud  along  the  plain — 

"  Fly  for  your  lives,  the  foe  is  at  your  doors  ! 

Fly  to  the  fort !"  to  warn  the  villagers. 

I  never  reached  the  fort  though  ;  luck,  or  fate, 

Or  some  ill  influence  that  dogs  men's  steps, 

Had  writ  me  down  unfortunate  that  day. 

For  scarce  my  feet  had  carried  me  'mid  plain, 

Running  with  every  nerve  stretched,  arms  a-play, 

My  spirits  up  and  dancing,  courage  roused, 

And  passions  all  enlisted  in  the  race, 

When  suddenly  a  thicket  by  the  path 

Let  out  three  lurking  heathen  on  my  front, 

And  cut  the  glorious  race  short.     One  of  the  three, 

A  hunched  black  warrior  with  a  spiteful  eye, 

Thrust  out  a  fire-arm  in  malignant  rage. 

And  as  I  bounded  onward,  fired,  and  I 

Plunged  forward  to  the  earth,  stung  in  the  heel 

By  hissing  lead — a  moment  shocked,  surprised, 

Not  knowing  well  my  hurt — fell,  but  arose, 

Hot-faced  with  rage,  and  met  my  foeman  there 

With  one  slim  blade,  but  panting  for  the  strife 

Of  strength  and  warrior  courage  to  the  end. 

But  ere  a  blow  was  struck,  amid  the  pause 

Defiant,  filled  with  flying  hateful  glances, 

A  tall  wild  warrior,  limbed  like  Hercules, 

And  slippery  as  a  serpent  from  the  fens 

Of  his  old  forests,  flung  his  gun  to  earth, 

Leapt  lightly  on  me,  coiled  himself  about  me, 

Tying  my  limbs  with  tangles  of  lithe  strength, 

And  bore  me  down  to  earth  tied  motionless  ; 

And  his  companion,  greedily  with  his  hands 


156  The  Burgvyne  Ballads. 

Tied  fast  my  limbs  with  cords.     Then  both  arose, 
And  looked  on  me.     Then  the  hunched  heathen  took 
My  blade,  torn  from  my  grasp,  and  whetted  it 
Upon  his  earth-soiled  moccasin  awhile, 
Eying  me  as  a  butcher  eyes  a  sheep 
Laid  bound  for  slaughter.     Ceasing,  up  he  sprang, 
And  flashed  the  steel  in  my  eyes,  extravagant 
In  cries  and  shows  of  triumph. 

So  I  lay 

Bound  in  the  presence  of  my  enemies, 
It  was  a  thing  most  wonderfully  done — 
I  never  saw  aught  like  it  in  my  time, 
'Mid  all  the  cunning  arts  and  sleights  of  fight 
Long  practised  in  the  handicraft  of  war ! 
My^heart  cried  shame  upon  me  then,  and  tears, 
The  first  to  dim  my  eyes  for  many  a  year, 
Flowed  to  reproach  my  fallen  estate,  that  I, 
A  famous  wrestler  in  my  college  days, 
And  man  of  action,  and  on  many  a  field 
Since  then  triumphant  in  my  strength  of  arm, 
At  last  should  yield  my  prestige  in  the  art 
To  that  wild  fellow  of  the  woods,  untaught, 
With  naught  but  simple  nature  for  his  friend. 
And  yet  amid  my  sharp  humility 
I  did  admire  the  deed  !     It  pleased  me  so 
That  I  forgave  the  fellow  on  the  spot 
With  all  my  heart,  it  was  so  bravely  done  ! 

A  few  swift  words  in  their  ungentle  tongue, 
Complete  with  glancing  eyes  and  waving  arms, 
Passed  'twixt  my  captors.     Then  the  champion  took 
His  weapons,  beckoned  to  his  chosen  mate  — 
A  lean  and  sinewy  warrior,  like  a  wolf— 
Who  followed,  and  the  pair  with  secret  steps 
Passed  silently  from  sight.     And  then  approached 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  157 

My  foe,  that  piece  of  fierce  deformity, 
And  bade  me  rise.     And  I  arose  and  went, 
Having  no  choice,  before  him  up  the  slope, 
Printing  the  path  with  blood,  but  with  the  sun 
Warm  on  my  back ;  and  soon,  with  bounden  limbs, 
In  pain  lay  stretched  beneath  the  ancient  pine 
Where  gushed  the  spring  of  water  from  the  bank— 
A  vein  of  pearl  by  moonshine,  but  in  the  sun 
A  darting  snake  of  gold  that  rustling  ran 
Down  briary  cleft  of  hillslope  to  the  plain. 
I  lay  and  watched  it  from  my  rugged  couch 
Awhile,  half  pleased  and  soothed  to  see  it  flow, 
Bearing  my  thought  a  moment  on  its  wave. 

Then  sounds  were  heard  above  me  on  the  rock, 

Voices  confused,  and  tread  of  many  feet, 

And  ring  of  arm  that  clashed  on  fellow  arm 

Cast  on  the  earth.     But  all  I  heard  unmoved, 

Being  downcast  and  captive.     But  my  guard 

Grew  restless  at  the  sounds,  and  flew  aside 

Often  to  view  the  scene,  as  oft  returned 

With  looks  more  dark  and  threatening ;  till  at  last, 

O'ercome  by  restless  longing  like  a  child, 

Fretful  ot  aught  that  bars  him  from  his  wish, 

He  vanished  up  the  rock,  leaving  behind 

His  spear,  and  one  wild  warning  glance  of  eye 

Shot  backward  as  he  passed.     I  heeded  not, 

But  lay  until  his  last  limb  disappeared, 

Withdrawn  above  the  brink !     Twas  then  with  pain 

And  utmost  struggle  that  I  rose  and  stood, 

Supported  by  the  pine  tree's  friendly  bulk — 

Ah,  how  the  cords  did  eat  into  my  flesh  !— 

And  looked  with  sharpened  eyes  across  the  plot 

Brought  level  with  my  gaze.     It  was  a  sight 

To  stir  the  heart  with  wrath,  disgust,  and  hate, 


158  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

To  fill  the  soul  with  curses  'stead  of  prayer, 

The  mouth  with  prayers  that  were  naught  else   but 

curses ; 

And  stir  a  sleeping  demon  in  the  breast 
To  thrills  of  fiendishness  that  puts  to  shame 
The  thing  divine  in  man.     A  company 
Red-handed  from  the  slaughter  clustered  there, 
Astir  with  dark  exultance  round  a  heap 
Of  ghastly  battle  trophies,  which  their  hands 
Had  stripped  from  murdered  bodies  of  brave  men, 
And  they  my  comrades  !     Garments  bathed  in  blood 
Were  there  ;  and  many  a  weapon  with  its  steel 
Dimmed  with  the  smoke  of  conflict,  as  it  fell 
From  some  strong  soldier's  grasp  struck  in  mid  course 
Of  fiery  onset.     One  slim  blade  I  saw 
Snapped  at  the  point  and  crimsoned  to  the  haft. 
Among  the  throng  were  some  that  crawled  along 
On  wounded  limbs,  the  furnace  of  their  hate 
Seven  times  more  heated  by  the  fires  of  pain  ; 
And  now  and  then  a  hand  amid  the  throng 
Would  pluck  a  loathly  object  from  a  girdle, 
And  whirl  the  fearful  trophy  high  in  air, 
Whereon  triumphant  cries  broke  from  the  throng, 
That  filled  my  soul  writh  loathing.     Back  I  sank 
Upon  the  kindlier  earth,  all  sick  at  soul, 
With  nature  shocked,  offended  at  the  sight 
Of  triumph  more  degrading  than  defeat. 

Now  sounds  of  coming  footsteps  caught  my  ear 
Climbing  the  path  beneath  me  ;  though  the  leaves 
Hung  thick  before  the  way,  and  mixed  o'erhead, 
Shut  out  the  panting  climbers  from  my  sight, 
A  hope  my  soul  had  harbored  while  I  lay 
Helpless,  with  prayers  for  vengeance  on  my  foes, 
Sprang  up  alive  at  these  oncoming  sounds, 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  159 

And  broke  the  dear  news  to  my  panting  heart, 

This  was  the  longed-for  succor  from  the  fort — 

Alas,  that  never  came  !     The  foliage 

That  closed  the  path,  just  where  it  took  its  plunge 

Sheer  to  the  plain,  was  shaken  for  a  space, 

Then  parted,  and  my  conqueror  stood  in  view, 

With  some  behind  him.     It  was  then  I  saw 

The  first  true  act  of  savage  gallantry 

My  eyes  had  ever  seen.     A  step  aside 

He  made,  and  paused,  and  gracefully  with  his  hand 

Drew  back  the  plaited  foliage  from  the  path, 

And  let  two  ladies  through.     The  first  that  came 

Was  Jennie,  issuing  from  the  leafy  shade 

In  all  her  maiden  glory — like  the  sun, 

O'ermounting  in  its  course  victorious 

Through  heaven  the  cloud  that  barred  his  early  beams. 

The  morning's  exercise  had  put  a  flush 

Of  rosy  warmth  upon  her  countenance  ; 

Her  bonnet  now  was  off,  and  from  her  head — 

That  strong  proud  head  she  carried  like  a  queen — 

Even  from  the  low  brow  backward  o'er  her  crown, 

Along  her  back  until  its  crinkled  gold 

Streaked  bright  the  path  behind  her  as  she  walked, 

Rolled  down  in  glorious  billows  that  great  hair 

Whose  match  was  never  seen  in  all  the  world  ! 

I  looked  upon  her  face — there  was  no  shade 

Of  fear  that  troubled  her  fair  countenance  ; 

But  in  her  sweet  blue  eyes  a  pointed  light 

Quivered  ;  and  on  her  cheek,  and  in  her  lips, 

Proud  curled  and  beautiful,  a  fire  and  sting 

Of  lovely  indignation  burned,  that  told 

A  world  of  things  by  tongue  unspeakable, 

In  judgment  from  a  proud  imperial  soul 

Offended.     Painfully  behind  her  came 

Her  friend  and  hostess,  great  in  flesh  and  frame, 


160  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

On  whom  the  heat  and  toil  pressed  wearily ; 
And  o'er  her  shoulder  as  she  came  two  eyes 
Shone  baleful,  of  a  captor  at  her  back. 

Scarce  had  they  issued  ere  the  maiden's  eyes 
Beheld  me  lying  helpless  in  my  bonds. 
She  thrust  aside  with  an  imperious  hand 
And  glance  of  scorn,  her  captor  from  her  path, 
And  came  close  to  my  side,  knew  me  and  smiled, 
And  spoke  a  pleasant  word  to  cheer  me  up, 
Bending  above  till  her  fallen  hair 
Touched  my  prone  breast  with  blessing — in  her  care 
For  me  forgetful  of  her  greater  woe. 

0  tender  light  of  woman's  sympathy, 
Shining  in  that  dark  place ! 

A  moment  more 

And  all  were  passing  onward  up  the  path, 
Round  the  rock's  angle,  climbing  toward  the  plot — 
A  rugged  path  for  tender  feet  to  tread, 
Rough,  hard  and  stony  cruel !     Oh,  I  wished — 

1  wished  and  longed,  but  could  not,  being  bound — 
To  ease  them  on — it  was  but  natural — 

One  loves  to  smooth  the  pathway  for  a  friend  ! 
And  as  they  vanished,  winding  round  the  rock, 
I  felt  that  awful  sinking  of  the  heart 
Suddenly  take  me,  that  I  oft  had  felt, 
Sometimes  on  battle-fields,  sometimes  in  camps, 
And  often  on  the  waters  of  the  deep, 
Forerunning  some  disaster,  woe  or  death 
To  one  I  loved  the  best  in  all  the  world. 
They  reached  the  plot  and  halted  ;  then  a  shout 
Vociferous  from  savage  throats  arose 
In  greeting  to  their  chief.     And  then  the  chiefs, 
Grave  and  subdued,  apart  upon  the  rock, 
Assembled  in  dark  conclave,  motionless 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  161 

Except  for  lips  and  eyes  unresting  moved 

In  energy  of  speech,  and  glances  shot 

Oft  toward  the  fort  with  sign  significant, 

And  oft  upon  the  captives.     And  among  them, 

Chief  in  authority  and  eloquence, 

Presided  my  wild  captor.     Brief  the  council, 

And  soon  dissolved ;  and  mixing  with  the  men, 

By  swift  and  subtle  signs  the  chiefs  made  known 

Their   will.     And   then   stepped   forth  two  warriors, 

strong 

Of  limb  and  innocent  of  battle  stain 
Or  reek  of  human  trophy,  and  addressed 
In  broken  tongue,  but  still  unbroken  signs, 
And  not  ungentle  art  and  emphasis 
The  elder  captive,  pointing  toward  the  north 
With  often  outstretched  arm  and  liberal  air 
Of  signified  assurance.     But  the  dame 
Returned  no  word  nor  stirred,  but  stood  bowed  down 
As  if  absorbed  in  her  calamity. 
And  oft  she  sighed  and  deep,  like  one  o'erspent 
With  toil  or  utmost  grief.     A  little  while 
Remained  she  thus,  and  then  she  raised  her  head, 
WTith  stern  and  flashing  eyes  fixed  on  her  foes, 
And  opening  at  once  her  heart  and  lips, 
Poured  out  with  marvellous  mastery  of  tongue 
A  rain  of  indignation  on  her  foes. 
And  all  the  band  shrank  awestruck  from  that  speech, 
Whose  fire  and  thrust  wrought  havoc  with  their  wits, 
And  overthrew  each  warrior  where  he  stood 
With  fear  and  admiration.     Cowed,  subdued, 
By  such  unwonted  thunder  in  their  ears, 
They  changed — unchanged  in  purpose  still — their  arts 
To  win  obedience  to  their  designs 
From  their  reluctant  captive — cringed  and  crawled 
In  awkward  forms  of  savage  blandishment, 


162  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

And  flatteries  unpractised  by  their  kind. 
Their  rude  persuasions  triumphed ;  and  the  two 
Took  her  between  them,  moving  leisurely.* 
And  sought  the  broader  highway  pointing  east 
Along  the  hill's  foot.     Winding  toward  the  plain 
They  pressed  along,  appearing  in  and  out 
Among  the  hazel  shoots  and  pine-tree  boles 
That  clustered  thick  between  us,  and  were  gone. 

*  At  this  point  it  would  seem  that  Mrs.  McNeil 
lost  sight  of  Jenny,  "who,"  to  use  the  language  of 
Mrs.  McNeil,  in  relating  the  circumstances  afterward, 
"was  there  ahead  of  me,  and  appeared  to  be  firmly 
seated  on  the  saddle,  and  held  the  rein,  while  several 
I  ndians  seemed  to  guard  her — the '  Wyandotte  Panther ' 
still  ascending  the  hill  and  pulling  along  by  bridle-bit 
the  affrighted  horse  upon  which  poor  Jenny  rode." 
Mrs.  McNeil,  however,  was  soon  separated  from 
Jenny  and  carried  off  to  "  Griffith's  House,"  and  there 
kept  by  the  Indians  until  the  next  day,  when  she  was 
ransomed  and  taken  to  the  British  camp.  "  I  never 
saw  Jenny  afterward,"  says  Mrs.  McNeil,  "nor  any 
thing  that  appertained  to  her  person,  until  my  arrival 
in  the  British  camp,  when  an  aide-de-camp  showed  me 
a  fresh  scalp-lock  which  I  could  not  mistake.  Till 
that  evidence  of  her  death  was  exhibited,  I  hoped 
almost  against  hope  that  poor  Jenny  had  been  either 
rescued  or  brought  by  our  captors  to  some  part  of  the 
British  encampment."  While  at  "  Griffith's  House," 
Mrs.  McNeil  endeavored  to  hire  an  Indian,  named 
Captain  Tommo,  to  go  back  and  search  for  her  com 
panion  ;  but  neither  he  nor  any  of  the  Indians  could  be 
prevailed  upon  to  venture  even  as  far  back  as  the  brow 
of  Fort  Edward  Hill  to  look  down  it  for  the 
"  White  Squaw,"  as  they  called  Jenny. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  '  163 

And  as  they  passed,  my  eyes  from  the  pursuit 
Flew  back  to  the  rock  where  hovered  all  my  fears, 
Like  birds  among  the  branches  when  the  snake 
Comes  crawling  toward  the  nest.     Upon  that  rock, 
Conspicuous  amid  the  wilderness, 
With  these  wild  scenes  and  faces  witnessing, 
Those  children  of  two  races,  white  and  red, 
The  maiden  and  the  warrior,  with  a  sword 
Extinguishing  between  them,  stood  apart 
And  gazed  upon  each  other.  .  .  .  May  his  race 
Fade  from  the  white  man's  face  as  sank  his  gaze 
Before  those  eyes  of  steadfast  innocence, 
Judging  his  lawless  soul ! 

Meanwhile,  the  sun, 

All  bright  till  then,  and  shining  in  his  strength, 
Making  the  whole  world  beautiful  with  light, 
Suddenly  darkened,  and  a  wind  arose, 
Silent  till  then,  and  wailing  filled  the  woods 
With  mournful  sounds,  and  sinking  swept  the  ground, 
Shaking  the  leaves  and  trailers  on  the  stones, 
And  whispering  round  the  tree  trunks  drearily, 
As  if  it  knew  and  grieved.     And  in  the  trees 
The  sweet  birds  ceased  their  songs,  and  suddenly 
With  piercing  cries  fled  through  the  lowering  air, 
Whirling  in  frightened  bevies  out  of  sight. 
Away  in  forest  depths  some  wandering  wolf 
Howled  and  was  still ;  and  some  distressed  beast 
In  some  far  border  farmyard  raised  its  voice 
And  lowed  disconsolate  to  the  darkened  sky. 
And  through  my  heart  and  blood  a  dull  chill  crept, 
And  o'er  my  mind  a  dark  foreboding  cloud 
Closed  by  degrees,  and  was  not  lifted  more 
Till  that  dark  evil  drawing  to  a  head 
Discharged  itself  in  blood  upon  the  land. 


164  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

There  rose  a  sudden  tumult  on  the  rock, 

Like  shouts  of  drunken  soldiers  when  a  town 

Is  sacked,  and  riot  howls  amid  the  streets, 

Urged  on  by  lust  and  passion  and  vile  drink 

Concocted  by  the  devil.     And  I  saw 

The  fit  of  lawless  passion  break  and  rage, 

'Mid  brutal  violence  and  strife  of  tongues, 

Not  wanting  coarsest  poison  ;  gestures  mad, 

Flashing  of  hate-hot  eyes,  hands  clenched  and  tossed 

In  desperate  menace,  weapons  seized  and  drawn, 

And  all  the  tumult  of  a  savage  strife 

Swelling  to  blows.     And  I  stood  trembling,  stayed 

Against  my  bulwark  tree,  with  all  the  man 

Within  me  crying  out  against  my  bonds, 

No  power  of  mine  could  rend,  although  I  strove 

With  strength  by  rage  made  desperate — all  in  vain  ! — 

The  cord  was  trusty  and  the  knot  made  sure 

Beyond  all  rending. 

Suddenly  as  I  gazed, 
A  rifle  barrel  gleamed  amid  the  throng, 
Hung  there  a  moment  set  and  ominous, 
Ere  the  wild  shot  screamed  out.     Then  I  beheld 
The  maid  start  suddenly,  as  if  surprised 
At  the  hurt  done  her,  saw  her  shining  head 
Sink,  with  its  weight  of  tresses,  to  her  breast ; 
I  heard  a  long  deep  sigh,  as  of  a  soul 
Passing  to  quiet  rest ;  and  sinking  down 
She  lay  a  lovely  ruin  on  the  earth, 
All  overflowed  with  her  great  wave  of  hair. 
And  then  I  saw  a  hatchet  whirl  in  air, 
And  fall  upon  that  poor  defenceless  head 
Scarce  yet  insensible.     These  eyes  did  see 
A  savage  hand  twined  in  that  sacred  hair, 
A  hell-lit  face  above,  a  glitter  of  steel, 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  165 

And  then — and  then  I  saw  no  more !     I  barred 
With  burning  lids  my  eyes  against  the  sight, 
And  turned  and  laid  me  on  the  earth  and  wept — 
As  I  weep  now.     Forgive  me  if  I  weep, 
It  helps  the  heart  to  grieve  a  little  while— 
The  flow  of  tears  turns  off  the  flood  of  woe, 
And  saves  the  heart  from  too  much  memory — 
The  memory  of  that  deed  unparalleled 
In  all  the  annals  of  this  bloody  land 
Since  history  began.     .     .     . 

Oh,  there  goes  forth 
A  cry  that  shall  be  quiet  nevermore, 
A  voice  to  speak  unto  the  years  unborn, 
A  voice  proclaiming  judgment,  and  a  power 
To  trouble  thrones,  cast  reputations  down 
Beyond  wide  seas,  in  other,  alien  lands 
Our  arms  can  never  reach,  our  laws  o'erawe, 
Our  justice  rectify.     That  voice  was  heard 
A  war  cry  thrilling  through  the  patriot  hosts 
On  Saratoga's  field.     And  flying  on, 
It  sounded  wild  o'er  Yorktown,  and  gave  back 
The  eagle  to  our  hosts.     On  ocean's  wave 
It  sounded  suddenly  amid  the  roar 
Combined  of  wind  and  wave  and  bellowing  guns  ; 
Filled  with  heroic   madness  the  strong  souls 
Of  seamen,  till  another  answering  shout, 
This  time  of  victory,  ran  on  the  waves 
Which  bore  the  news  to  all  the  nations.     So 
Our  flag  triumphant  waves  from  every  hill. 

And  when  at  length  I  looked  abroad  again, 
Another  change  had  come  upon  the  scene ; 
The  summer  sky  was  blue  and  bright  again, 
Now  that  the  evil  shadow  of  that  cloud 
Had  broken  up,  and  passing  left  it  clear. 


166  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

For  that  mysterious  darkness  now  was  gone ; 

Again  the  sun  shone  o'er  the  wilderness, 

Again  the  merry  birds  sang  in  the  trees, 

The  squirrel  skipped  and  sported  on  his  limb, 

And  cast  the  empty  refuse  of  his  feast 

With  mocking  gibes  upon  me  as  I  lay, 

Then  sped  with  nimble  scamperings  out  of  sight. 

A  pleasant  breeze  hummed  quaintly  in  my  ears, 

Making  the  leaves  shake  lightly,  while  the  sun 

Speckled  the  rich  turf  under  them  with  gold. 

Nature,  who  closed  her  eyes  on  that  dark  deed, 

Refusing  to  behold  it,  now  was  gay, 

And  made  her  Sabbath  music  as  before. 

PART  II. 

Ah  well  !  I  scarcely  knew  what  next  they  did, 
Except  they  spared  me — spared  my  worthless  life, 
Though  they  had  torn  my  heart,  and  stunned  my  brain, 
And  stabbed  my  suffering  spirit  through  and  through 
With    thrice  the  pangs  of  death.      They   loosed  my 

bonds, 

And  bade  me  rise — not  spitefully  indeed — 
Even  a  little  pitifully  it  seemed. 
And  I  arose  and  made  essay  to  walk, 
With  such  poor  progress  as  my  stumbling  limbs 
Might  make  along  a  path  so  blind  and  rough. 
For  I  was  stunned,  benumbed  in  head  and  limb, 
And  moved  as  one  that  walks  but  half  awake, 
Scarce  feeling  pain  or  pleasure.     Everything 
Seemed  strangely  dim  and  dusky  round  me  now, 
And  faint  and  dream-like.     All  the  pleasant  sounds 
And  gladsome  sights  that  filled  the  Sabbath  woods 
Came  to  me  through  some  dusky  medium 
That  cloaked  the  senses. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  167 

So  we  passed  along, 

My  captors  strangely  temperate  with  me 
In  my  loose  walk,  and  stumblings  to  and  fro, 
With  feet  benumbed  and  bleeding.     Yet  they  kept 
Ever  beside  me,  gliding  dim  and  dark, 
Like  demons  in  a  nightmare — creeping,  creeping — 
So  dumb  and  death-like — it  was  terrible  ! 
Truly  they  seemed  like  devils ! 

Slow  we  went 

Under  the  cooling  shade,  o'er  leaf-beds  spread 
To  deaden  more  our  footsteps ;  when  erelong 
We  overtook  the  dame  and  her  two  guards- 
Travellers  more  slow  than  we — journeying  on 
Their  road  laboriously.     And  yet  the  dame 
Failed  not  of  spirit,  but  brave  and  bright  of  eye, 
And  stout  of  heart,  toiled  on  complainingless. 
I  thought  she  paled  a  little  when  she  saw 
Our  band  appear  with  but  one  prisoner, 
And  that  the  one  least  present  in  her  thoughts ; 
Perhaps  she  questioned  me  by  some  mute  sign- 
But  I  was  stunned  and  dreaming,  knowing  naught, 
And  she  bore  stoutly  onward  as  before. 

At  last  we  reached  a  cabin  hid  in  woods, 
Log-built  and  brown,  with  hospitable  look— 
A  sort  of  inn,  with  loungers  round  the  door — 
White  men  and  red,  who  roused  them  as  we  came 
Up  to  the  porch,  and  gazed,  but  said  no  word— 
And  dogs  and  children  playing  round  the  porch. 
And  here  we  paused  and  rested  for  awhile, 
Took  food,  and  such  rough  comfort  as  we  might, 
Being  downcast  and  captive,  and  reserved 
For  what  dark  fate  we  knew  not — nay,  and  I— 
At  least  I  cared  not  !     Fate  had  naught  for  me 
I  even  cared  to  question  or  to  know, 


168  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

So  weary  was  my  soul  of  all  this  strife. 
We  gathered  up,  and  took  our  road  again, 
Something  improved  in  spirit  and  in  limb, 
For  the  brief  tarry  and  the  food  we  took. 
And  now  our  captors  grew  more  kind,  and  turned 
Often,  and  spoke  to  us  in  broken  words, 
And  not  ungently.     Tried  to  cheer  us  up, 
Speaking  in  words  and  signs  of  camp  and  friends, 
Of  ransoms  and  of  coming  liberty- 
Themes,  to  be  sure,  to  buoy  a  captive  up, 
And  start  a  peering  hope  within  the  heart 
Of  black  misfortune — all  in  vain  to  me, 
Too  heart-sick  to  revive  at  anything  ; 
Too  worn  of  all  this  seeming  senseless  strife, 
Of  all  this  noisy  war  of  arms  and  tongues— 
These  endless  themes  of  battles,  battles,  battles  ! 
Of  marches,  sallies,  camps  and  victories 
Forever  on  men's  tongues  !     Sick  of  this  land — 
Sick  of  the  land  and  all  its  miseries, 
And  even  of  life  and  all  that  life  contains. 
And  my  brave  comrade  in  captivity- 
She  was  too  angry  still  to  heed  them  much, 
Or  answer  if  she  heeded. 

When  the  sun 

Had  dipped  below  the  fringe  of  forest  trees 
Far  on  the  skirts  of  that  green  lonely  world, 
And  half  the  summer  afternoon  had  waned, 
Slow  fading  toward  the  west,  we  reached  a  place 
Where  the  high  plain  around  us  and  behind 
Ceased  suddenly,  and  the  land  fell  away 
To  northward  with  a  plunge,  into  a  stretch 
Of  dark  and  sunken  soil,  with  cedar  shades 
O'erspread,  that  girt  the  highlands  like  a  girdle. 
And  in  its  very  coil  the  British  camp, 
Dotting  a  low  knoll  with  its  clustered  tents, 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  169 

Like  cones  of  fleece  amid  the  blackened  stumps 
And  black  earth  scorched  with  fire.     And  round  it, 

walls 

Of  cedar  woods  impenetrable,  wild, 
And  dim  and  lonesome.     'Twas  a  pretty  sight, 
That  touched  the  soul  with  a  reviving  sense 
Of  hope  and  cheer  and  human  fellowship, 
After  that  dim  and  ghostly  march,  with  souls 
Bowed  'neath  their  burden  of  captivity. 
And  as  we  looked,  it  seemed  as  if  I  saw, 
Instead  of  tents  that  sheltered  mortal  foes, 
A  camp  of  angels,  with  celestial  tents 
Pitched  in  the  heart  of  the  great  wilderness, 
Gleaming  a  moment,  soon  to  be  withdrawn. 
Our  captors  saw,  and  shouting  swung  in  air 
Their  bloody  relics  ;  for  their  march  was  done, 
Their  danger  past,  their  triumph  nigh  complete. 
They  shouted,  and  an  answering  cry  arose 
From  the  camp's  rear.     And  then  a  troop  of  friends- 
Friends  of  our  foes,  God  help  us,  not  of  ours— 
Sprang  forth  to  meet  them,  like  a  pack  of  dogs 
Flying  with  yelps  and  gambollings  of  joy 
To  meet  their  kind  returning  from  a  raid 
Upon  some  innocent  sheepfold,  bathed  in  blood, 
And  mad  with  gust  of  slaughter — so  they  came. 
A  file  of  soldiers  too  were  soon  on  foot, 
Flashing  in  steel  and  scarlet  up  the  path, 
And  as  they  came  the  clamorous  dogs  grew  mute, 
Ceased  their  vile  gambollings,  and  slunk  away 
O'erawed  and  cowed — except,  indeed,  the  few 
Whose  game  we  were.     And  these  restrained  them 
selves, 

Submitting  while  the  King's  men,  filing  round, 
Enclosed  and  drew  us  from  them.     Silently, 
With  stately  tread,  they  marched  us  down  the  hill, 


170  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

And  with  no  further  parley  or  delay 

Drew  toward  a  log-reared  cabin,  roofed  with  bark, 

That  stood  the  centre  of  the  clustered  tents 

That  flecked  the  knoll.     A  sentry  in  the  path 

Saluted,  and  our  leader  touched  his  cap, 

And  on  we  passed,  dogged  by  our  dusky  foes, 

Sliding  along  like  shadows,  and  as  still, 

Suffered  to  pass  with  that  mute  tolerance 

Which  shadows  claim  that  dog  us  everywhere — 

Nay,  worse,  scorned  and  detested,  so  it  seemed, 

With  silent  and  significant  neglect 

By  these  their  bounden  patrons,  paymasters, 

And  nominal  fair  friends.     Erelong  we  stood 

Around  the  door  of  the  great  general's  tent 

Commanding  these  strong  legions — men  and  arms — 

Marching  with  purple  pride  and  waving  flags 

To  crush  the  weak  and  miserable  few 

Who  bore  the  burden  of  this  mighty  cause, 

And  the  freedom  of  our  people  on  their  swords. 

The  red  guard  parted  right  and  left,  and  we 

Filed  in  between  them  through  the  open  door, 

My  captive  friend  and  I,  and  following  still, 

Our  foes,  subdued  and  watchful.     Then  the  guard 

Wheeled  and  marched  off,  a  sergeant,  proud  and  tall, 

Stepping  with  stately  motion  in  our  rear. 

A  low  rude  room  it  was  wherein  we  stood, 
Divided  in  the  midst  by  dropping  walls 
Of  painted  curtains,  looped  in  heavy  folds, 
Like  banners  o'er  an  archway.     All  the  walls 
Were  cedar  beams  yet  shaggy  with  the  bark 
Wherein  they  grew ;  and  for  a  floor  our  feet 
Stood  ankle-deep  in  bearskins  loosely  laid 
Upon  the  bare  and  rugged  earth  beneath. 
Around  the  room  were  banners,  weapons,  chests 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  171 

Carved,  and  with  mighty  clasps  of  brass  thereon, 

Ancient,  from  over  seas  ;  and  everywhere 

The  all  select  and  choice  appurtenance 

Of  a  great  general's  tent.     There  stood  a  desk, 

Whereat  a  pale  clerk  in  half  uniform 

Sat  busy  working  at  his  documents, 

His  head  upon  one  side,  with  sidelong  eye 

Upon  the  lines  made  by  his  running  quill. 

He  quit  his  task,  half  wheeling  in  his  seat, 

Eying  us  sharply;  then  smiled,  half  in  scorn, 

At  such  extreme  dejection.     "Ah,"  he  said, 

"  Prisoners,  I  see  !     Go,  orderly,  report 

Two  prisoners  to  the  general,  and  return." 

And  turning  to  his  documents  again, 

Wrote  on.     And  the  proud  sergeant  at  the  door 

Stalked  out,  his  sabre  clanking  as  he  went. 

Then  passed  a  scene  I  never  shall  forget, 

The  strangest  scene,  considering  time  and  place, 

My  eyes  have  ever  seen.     Entered  the  tent 

Two  officers  in  royal  uniform — 

One,  middle-aged  and  careworn,  moving  slow; 

One,  young,  built  like  a  prince,  with  flashing  eyes, 

And  with  the  name  and  character  complete 

Of  soldier  and  brave  man  inscribed  upon  him— 

A  fine,  dark  fellow.     Then  the  elder  paused, 

Scarce  yet  within  the  tent  door,  with  his  eyes 

Upon  the  wretched  dame,  and  suddenly, 

With  dubious  voice,  "  Why,  madam !"  he  exclaimed. 

And,  "  General !"  she  replied,  distinct  and  short  ; 

And  flash  upon  that  greeting  there  arose 

A  storm  of  tongue  and  temper,  unapproached 

In  all  my  memory  of  wordy  wars — 

The  crown  and  flower  of  female  raillery, 

Saved  by  just  rage  from  mere  vulgarity 


172  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Detestable  to  see.     Oh,  it  was  rare, 

To  see  that  haughty  English  general, 

Great  lord  of  hosts,  and  conqueror  of  realms, 

Who  never  bowed  before  an  enemy, 

Whipped  in  his  tent  by  one  wronged  woman's  tongue  ! 

And  that  same  woman  his  own  cousin  born — 

His  kinswoman  according  to  the  flesh ; 

And  more  than  that,  in  soul  and  sentiment, 

A  partner  in  the  cause  for  which  he  fought — 

A  royalist  as  rank  as  ever  breathed. 

A  doting  lion,  hungering  for  prey, 

Had  pounced  upon  and  caught — a  lioness  ! 

And  now,  Sir  Lion,  look  you  out  for  claws ! 

Oh,  and  the  claws  were  there !     And  suddenly 

Unsheathed,  made  havoc  more  complete  than  swords 

Of  twice  a  score  of  alien  adversaries, 

Whom  courage  might  o'ercome.    "  Sir,  stand  and  look  ! 

This  is  a  precious  piece  of  gallantry, 

Right  worthy  of  a  Royal  officer 

And  gentleman  !"     Twas  thus  the  gale  begun, 

And  waxed  anon  until  it  blew  great  guns, 

Drowning  all  opposition.     "  On  my  word  !" 

"  Upon  the  honor  of  a  gentleman  !" 

"  Madam,  I  swear" — "  Permit  me,  but  a  word  !" 

"  I  never  knew — indeed,  how  could  I  know  !— 

I  beg  you  stop  and  let  me  say  a  word." 

Straws  to  the  wind  !     Twas  wonderful  to  hear 

What  gusts  of  words,  what  flashes  scintillant 

Of  keen  sarcastic  lightning,  stormy  bursts 

Of  most  authentic  thunder,  what  keen  thrusts 

Of  deadly  irony,  dealt  thick  and  fast, 

One  following  on  another  like  a  glance, 

Poured  from  the  fiery  heart  and  stormy  lungs 

Of  that  great  titaness  !     And  ended  all 

With  one  great  cry  that  filled  the  tent,  and  shrilled, 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  173 

Piercing  all  ears.     "  Oh,  there  stand  murderers  here ! 

Ask  them  of  Jenny — ask  of  Jane  McCrea  !" 

And  then  the  true  warm  woman  in  her  heart 

O'ermatched  at  last  her  rage,  and  down  she  sank, 

O'ercome,  and,  like  a  woman,  all  in  tears. 

And  thereupon  the  mighty  general 

Brought  out  a  soldier's  cloak  of  ample  breadth, 

And  gallantly  as  ever  soldier  could 

Spread  it  about  the  shoulders  of  the  dame, 

And  smiling  besought  her  wear  it  for  awhile, 

Until  a  fitting  robe  be  found  for  her, 

To  better  clothe  her  form.     And  she  arose, 

Muttering  short  thanks,  and  shaking  down  the  folds, 

Sat  down  again,  wrapped  up  from  head  to  heel. 

And  then  the  clerk,  whose  pen  had  quit  its  task 

Upon  the  outbreak  of  that  wordy  war, 

His  eyes  meanwhile  brimful  of  sparkling  fun, 

And  overbubbling  humor  scarce  restrained, 

Resumed  his  quill,  and  scratched  on  as  before. 

The  general,  mild  and  all  obsequious, 

Complacent  with  his  tact  and  management, 

Stood  rubbing  hands  vivaciously. 

Behind, 

Unmoved  and  sullen,  ranged  along  the  wall, 
The  Indians  stood,  like  shadows  darkly  limned, 
But  shadows  with  fierce  eyeballs  now  and  then 
Slanting  their  dusky  glimmer,  half  at  rest, 
Patient,  on  foot,  taking  their  wonted  ease. 
And  every  mind  took  on  a  sense  of  calm 
How  grateful ;  and  each  heart  conceived  a  touch 
Of  human  fellowship  ;  and  every  face 
Assumed  a  look  of  comfort  and  content 
At  this  subsidence — every  face  save  one, 
And  that  was  white  and  anxious,  as  the  man 
Measured  the  cabin's  length  from  end  to  end 


174:  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

With  restless  strides.     A  panther  might  have  moved 
Thus  while  the  brush  stirred  with  the  hunter's  steps, 
Closing  the  hunt  around  him.     As  he  paced 
His  glances  played  in  an  incessant  search 
Betwixt  the  dame  and  those  dumb  witnesses 
Ranged  'gainst  the  wall  with  looks  inscrutable. 
It  was  that  princely  soldier  whom  my  eye 
Had  marked  with  admiration, — a  moment  since 
Careless  and  graceful  in  his  mien,  but  now 
With  soul  strained  like  a  bowstring  while  it  trembles 
Tense  for  the  shaft.     Then  suddenly  he  ceased 
His  pacings,  and  strode  straight  up  to  the  dame, 
And  on  her  shoulder  laid  a  hand,  and  bent 
With  burning  eyes  above  her,  and  at  her  ear — 
Heard  by  all  ears  beside  :  "  Tell  me  of  Jane  ; 
Something  you  said  of  Jenny — Jane  McCrea." 
And  then  the  answer  came,  but  not  from  lips 
Of  any  living  being.     While  he  spoke, 
Three  wild  and  warlike  figures  foul  with  dust, 
And  soil  of  darker  stain,  came  gliding  in, 
And  halting,  rolled  their  snaky  eyes  around, — 
Silent,  and  weary  with  their  forest  march 
And  wild  work  of  the  morning  ;  yet  no  less 
Elate  with  triumph  cunningly  concealed. 
And  as  the  soldier  turned  and  faced  them  there, 
One,  a  wild,  brawny  creature  like  a  wolf, 
Raised  a  strange  thing  he  held,  shook  it  aloft, 
And  with  a  red  forefinger  significantly 
Tapped  it  and  smiled — a  grim,  ferocious  smile- 
Even  for  a  savage,  grim  and  hideous. 
Then  from  behind  there  rose  a  fearful  cry, 
A  woman's  cry  of  anger  and  despair  ; 
As  when  a  lioness  returned  from  hunt 
All  day,  for  prey  to  feed  her  little  ones, 
Hungry  within  their  covert,  comes  at  night 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  175 

And  scents  the  bodies  of  her  little  ones 
Slaughtered  by  hunters,  and  in  rage  and  grief 
Peals  through  the  woods  her  solitary  cry. 
So  cried  the  dame  and  rose,  her  mighty  bulk 
Aquiver  and  her  eyes  aflame,  her  hand 
Pointing — "  O  see  !  that  is  our  Jenny's  hair. 
O,  they  have  slain — have  slain  our  innocent !" 
"  That  thing  my  Jenny's  hair  !"  these  were  the  words 
I  heard  that  poor  bewildered  lover  say- 
Bewildered  for  a  moment,  but  no  more. 
And  then  there  came  a  blow,  swift,  deadly,  sure,  , 
That  rolled  the  savage  headlong  to  the  earth. 
There  like  a  whirlwind  passed  a  furious  strife 
Betwixt  those  fiery  warriors  white  and  red ; 
One  bent  on  vengeance  deadly  in  its  aim, 
And  one,  with  wily  art  and  ready  tact, 
Evading  that  dread  issue.     From  side  to  side, 
Over  and  over  they  rolled,  until  the  tent 
Shook,  and  the  bearskins  flew  this  way  and  that 
Among  the  circling  spectators,  disturbed 
With  panic,  this  way  dodging  and  then  that, 
To  evade  the  writhing  bodies.     Thus  the  fight 
Went  on.     And  when  'twas  finished  there  arose 
A  soldier  breathless,  haggard,  wild  and  torn, 
And  in  his  hand  grasped  tight  that  ghastly  thing, 
And  it  was  piteous  how  on  fumbling  feet 
He  staggered,  blind  and  panting,  through  the  tent 
And  sank  upon  a  seat  with  face  bowed  down 
And  sunken  in  his  hands  in  utter  grief. 
And  thus  he  stayed  awhile ;  then  stirred,  and  passed 
His  hand  along  his  brow  and  o'er  his  face, 
And  groaned  aloud  in  mighty  agony 
Of  spirit.     Suddenly  he  started  up 
And  groped  toward  the  tent  door  till  an  arm 
WTas  lent  in  pity,  and  he  leaned  on  that 


176  The  Buryoyne  Ballads. 

And  passed  the  tent  door,  groaning  as  he  passed, 
"  Oh,  my  poor  lost  beloved  !  my  poor  Jane  !" 
And  thus  with  feeble  footsteps,  stunned  and  blind, 
Tottering  like  age  and  palsy — piteously 
He  passed  from  sight  a  broken,  ruined  man. 
And  when  we  quit  the  tent  at  dusk  that  night, 
And  passed  into  the  moonlight,  with  the  stars 
Above  that  dark  and  deadly  wilderness 
Flashing  their  kindly  beacons  through  the  night, 
And  the  wind  sighing  mournful  'mid  the  tents, 
And  the  far  panther  screaming  in  the  wilds — 
Upon  the  outmost  edge  of  clustering  tents, 
Where  the  black  earth  fell  off  to  blacker  depths 
Of  dense  morass  and  denser  cedar  shades, 
We  saw  against  the  red  orb  of  the  moon 
An  unknown  wandering  figure  cross  our  path, 
And  seek  the  shelter  of  a  neighboring  tent. 
And  as  a  wave  of  night-wind  swept  along 
We  seemed  to  hear  that  cry  disconsolate 
Pass  on  the  night  air,  piercing  every  soul — 
"Oh,  my  poor  lost  beloved  !  my  poor  Jane  !" 

THE    END. 


JANE  McCREA. 
BY   LURA  A.   BOIES.* 

TWAS  in  the  gorgeous  summer  time, 
The  vesper  bells  with  mellow  chime 

Rang  out  the  golden  day. 
Along  the  distant  mountain's  height, 
And  o'er  the  Hudson,  flashing  bright, 
In  purple  floods  of  dazzling  light, 

The  sunset  glory  lay  ; 

*  For  sketch  of  Miss  Boies,  see  note,  ante. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  177 

The  crimson  of  the  western  fires 
Glowed  redly  on  Fort  Edward's  spires, 

And  deeper  splendors  burned, 
Till  Earth,  with  all  her  lakes  and  rills, 
Her  waving  woods  and  towering  hills, 

To  burnished  gold  was  turned. 

I  had  been  listening  to  the  chimes, 
And  thinking  of  the  stirring  times, 

When  hill  and  lonely  glen 
'Woke  to  the  thunder  tones  of  yore, 
The  sounds  that  rolled  from  shore  to  shore, 
The  deep-mouthed  cannon's  sullen  roar, 

The  tramp  of  mail-clad  men  ; 
I  had  been  thinking  of  the  days 
When  the  fierce  battle's  lurid  blaze 

Hung  like  a  fiery  cloud 
O'er  rock  and  river,  wood  and  dell, 
Where  now  the  radiant  sunset  fell 

And  I  had  left  the  crowd, 
And  sought,  with  hushed  and  reverent  tread, 
That  pleasant  city  of  the  dead, 

Where  the  wild  wind-harps  play, 
And  pine  trees  wave  and  willows  weep, 
Above  her  in  her  dreamless  sleep, 

The  hapless  Jane  McCrea. 

Silent,  as  if  on  holy  ground, 

I  neared  that  angel-guarded  mound, 

Where  white  wings  viewless  wave  ; 
An  aged  man,  with  hoary  hair, 
And  rude  scars  on  his  forehead  bare, 
Was  kneeling  in  the  sunset  there, 

Upon  the  maiden's  grave. 
Was  it  some  risen  chief  I  saw, 
That  o'er  me  came  that  breathless  awe — 


178  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Was  it  some  warrior  bold  ? 
Whose  hand  had  grasped  the  ringing  steel, 
Whose  soul  had  thrilled  to  Freedom's  peal, 

In  the  wild  strife  of  old  ? 

With  sudden  tears  mine  eyes  grew  dim, 
Nearer  I  drew  and  questioned  him 

Of  all  the  storied  past ; 
Of  the  fierce  days  when  roused  our  sires 

To  the  shrill  trumpet's  blast, 
And  the  red  light  of  battle  fires 

Upon  our  free  hills  lay  ; 
I  asked  him  of  the  green  arcade, 
Where  gleamed  that  savage  chieftain's  blade, 
I  asked  of  her,  the  Scottish  maid, 

The  fated  Jane  McCrea  ! 

Then  did  the  veteran  warrior  speak, 
And  down  his  pale  and  furrowed  cheek 

The  hot  tears  glistening  ran  ; 
Then  with  the  old  fire  flashed  his  eye, 
His  trembling  tones  rose  clear  and  high, 

And  thus  his  tale  began. 

PART  I. 

The  booming  guns  of  Lexington 
Had  'roused  both  gallant  sire  and  son, 
And  louder  than  the  trumpet's  clang 
The  notes  of  wild  alarum  rang. 
The  dawning  light  of  Freedom's  star 
Shone  dimly  in  the  skies  afar, 
Where  veiled  in  the  black  night  of  war 

The  sun  of  peace  went  down. 
And  by  that  faint  and  flickering  glow 
The  brave  of  heart  and  broad  of  brow 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  179 

Had  boldly  sworn  they  would  not  bow 
To  England's  regal  crown. 

A  thrill  went  through  Columbia's  soul, 
An  alien  sound  went  o'er  the  sea, 
Majestic  as  an  anthem's  roll, 

The  DECLARATION  of  the  free  ! 
Earth's  startled  minions  wondering  heard, 
Britannia,  to  her  proud  heart  stirr'd, 
Hurl'd  back  the  bold,  defiant  word, 
And  drew  in  wrath  her  flaming  sword  ; 
Fiercely  the  hostile  nations  met, 
And  yonder  sun  in  darkness  set 

On  many  a  fatal  day  ; 
In  scenes  of  blood  and  carnage  din, 
'Mid  hissing  balls  the  gray-haired  sire 
Fought  with  the  youthful  warrior's  fire 

In  many  a  deadly  fray  ; 
Still  'rose  the  red  war's  fiery  form, 
Still  rag'd  the  furious  battle  storm, 

When  Burgoyne's  haughty  hosts, 
Breaking  the  waves  with  mighty  sweep, 
Came  o'er  the  waters  blue  and  deep, 

And  landed  on  our  coasts. 

Clad  in  the  battle's  bright  array, 

With  waving  plumes  and  pennons  gay, 

And  flaming  banners  spread, 
And  arms  that  in  the  sunlight  glanced, 
Forward  the  British  ranks  advanced 

With  slow  and  measured  tread  ; 
Then  rose  a  swift  and  rushing  sound, 
That  woke  the  hills  and  shook  the  ground, 

Then  freemen  fought  and  fell. 
The  redder  gushed  the  crimson  flood, 
Then  was  our  land  baptized  in  blood — 


180  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Of  all  the  strife  that  followed  then, 
That  thrilled  the  hearts  of  mighty  men, 
Ah  me  !  I  may  not  tell ! 

The  spirit  of  that  warlike  age 

I  feel  its  fires  within  me  rage, 

My  bosom  heaves,  my  old  heart  swells, 

I  feel  it  now,  the  evening  bells 

Ring  out  the  dying  day. 
I  hear  the  sound  of  martial  strains, 

I  hear  the  war-horse  neigh  ; 
I  see  the  smoke  of  battle  plains, 
The  swift  blood  courses  through  my  veins, 

I  plunge  into  the  fray. 
I  feel  the  scorching,  burning  blaze, 
I  live  again  those  stirring  days, 

The  days  of  Jane  McCrea. 

PART  II. 

'Twas  morning. — Rich  and  radiant  dyes 
Flamed  in  the  gorgeous  orient  skies  jj 
Draped  in  the  purple  of  his  throne 
The  royal  sun  resplendent  shone. 
The  broad,  blue  Hudson,  blazing  bright, 
Glowed  like  a  line  of  liquid  light, 
A  wave  of  glory  rippled  o'er 
The  hills  along  the  eastern  shore, 
And  waving  wood  and  fortress  gray, 
Blushing  in  rosy  splendor  lay, 
Kissed  by  the  red  lips  of  the  day, 
And  glittering  spear  and  lances'  gleam 
Flashed  back  again  the  rising  beam. 

On  the  broad  lands  beyond  the  wood, 
Now  bright  with  harvest  sheaves, 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  181 

The  solid  lines  of  Albion  stood 

As  thick  as  forest  leaves ; 
Hot  haste  and  consternation  then 
Spread  through  the  ranks  of  our  bravest  men, 
A  clear  blast  rang  throughout  the  glen, 

Louder  than  hunter's  horn, 
And  the  quick  tramp  of  hurrying  feet, 
The  drum's  deep  bass  that  rapid  beat, 
The  gathering  din  of  swift  retreat, 

Rose  on  the  summer  morn. 

From  many  a  lowly  woodland  home 
Went  up  the  cry  "  The  foe !  they  come  !" 
And  warm  young  hearts  grew  faint  with  fear, 
And  little  children  clustered  near, 

And  blushing  cheeks  grew  pale  ; 
And  many  a  form  with  noiseless  glide 
Stole  to  the  gallant  warrior's  side, 
And  fluttering  garments,  white  and  fair, 
Were  blent,  in  strange  confusion  there, 

With  coats  of  burnished  mail. 

Aside,  that  morn,  from  all  the  crowd, 

In  earnest  thought  her  young  head  bowed, 

The  Scottish  maiden  stood, 
With  downcast  face  and  lips  apart, 
A  new  joy  thrilling  in  her  heart, 
That  gave  her  cheeks  a  warmer  glow, 
And  brought  unto  its  stainless  snow 

The  quick  o'ermantling  blood. 
Thus  stood  she  bound  as  by  a  spell, 

Oh,  in  that  hour  how  wondrous  fair ! 
Around  her  like  a  glory  fell 

The  rich  veil  of  her  raven  hair, 
The  fearless  spirit  throbbing  high 
Lit  up  her  clear,  calm  hazel  eye, 


182  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

And  lent  the  face  bowed  meekly  there 
A  beauty  such  as  angels  wear. 

Oh,  human  love  !  what  strange  divine, 
What  strange  mysterious  power  is  thine ; 
It  was  thy  light  that  inward  shone 
And  bound  her  in  its  radiant  zone ; 
It  was  thy  low,  melodious  lay 
That  charmed  her  soul  from  earth  away, 
Till  mindless  of  the  outward  din 
She  only  heard  the  voice  within, 
.  And  listened  to  the  silver  tone, 
That  whispered  of  the  chosen  one 
To  whom  her  plighted  troth  was  given, 
Who  filled  her  deepest  heart  with  heaven  ! 
By  thee,  a  willing  captive  led, 
The  maiden  knew  no  secret  dread, 

Nor  felt  a  boding  fear; 
Nor  heard  the  Indian's  stealthy  tread, 

Nor  saw  the  danger  near. 

A  sudden  shriek,  a  piercing  cry, 
That  seemed  to  rend  the  bending  sky, 
Went  up  that  morn  so  shrill  and  high, 
It  made  the  sternest  soldier  start, 

And  chilled  and  froze  the  circling  blood, 
And  sent  it  curdling  to  his  heart, 

That  still  with  terror  stood ; 
Then  rose  a  wild  demoniac  yell, 
A  sound  our  brave  men  knew  too  well ! 

Each  soul  had  felt  the  sickening  fear, 
Each  hand  had  grasped  the  gleaming  spear, 
When  on  the  air,  distinct  and  clear, 
The  tramp  of  falling  hoof  drew  near, 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  183 

And  with  thin  nostrils  spreading  wide, 
The  ringing  spur  plunged  in  his  side, 
With  headlong  fury  rushing  fast, 
A  foaming  courser  darted  past. 
Ha !  'twas  the  chieftain  held  the  rein 
And  goaded  on  the  steed  amain, 
And  one,  a  gentle  girl,  was  there, 
With  hazel  eyes  and  flowing  hair  ; 
Grasped  in  his  sinewy  arm,  and  press'd 
Rudely  upon  his  brawny  chest, 

The  frail  form  helpless  lay. 
Alas  !  for  thee,  thou  captured  maid, 
Oh,  that  some  hand  thy  doom  had  stayed, 

Thou  fated  Jane  McCrea  ! 

A  voice  went  up  from  mighty  men, 

A  loud  and  stirring  cry, 
And  the  bold  warrior  shouted  then, 

"  Mount !  to  the  rescue  fly!" 
They  rose,  a  brave  and  gallant  few, 
And  o'er  the  ground  the  swift  steeds  flew, 

Winged  with  the  lightning's  speed ; 
Till  in  that  green  and  shady  dell, 
Where  the  clear  waters  sparkling  well, 
Where  towers  the  tall  and  stately  pine, 
And  the  light  falls  with  softer  shine, 
The  savage  gave  a  fiercer  yell, 

And  reined  his  panting  steed. 
Forth  from  the  leafy  woodland  shades 

Leaped  many  a  painted  warrior's  form, 
And  brightly  glanced  their  murderous  blades, 

And  wildly  rose  the  battle's  storm. 
Hot  balls  hissed  through  the  summer  sheen, 

And  haughty  plumes  and  crests  bent  low ; 


184  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Then  darker  grew  the  fearful  scene, 

And  waves  of  blood  surged  to  and  fro. 
Before  the  shower  of  fiery  hail, 
The  chieftain  saw  his  numbers  fall ; 
With  ire  his  swarthy  cheeks  grew  pale, 
And  turning  from  the  fell  strife  there, 

He  stood  by  her,  the  Scottish  maid. 
He  seized  her  long  and  flowing  hair, 

And  o'er  her  gleamed  his  naked  blade  ; 
And  reeking  from  the  tide  of  life, 
Back  flashed  the  long  and  glittering  knife  ; 
A  fiendish  sneer  upon  his  lip, 

A  strange  wild  triumph  in  his  eye, 
The  chieftain  saw  the  red  blood  drip, 

And  held  the  ghastly  trophy  high  ; 
Then  round  him  drew  his  blanket-plaid, 
And  plunged  into  the  forest  shade. 

The  strong,  stern  man — the  warrior  true- 
Felt  in  his  eye  the  gathering  dew, 
When  with  hushed  tread  he  nearer  drew, 

To  the  still  form  beneath  the  pine— 
The  maiden  on  the  dewy  green  ; 

For  ne'er  did  morning  sunlight  shine 
Upon  a  stranger,  sadder  scene. 
The  warm  bright  life-tide's  crimson  flow 
Dyed  deep  her  graceful  garment's  snow 
And  mingled  with  the  waters  clear, 
That  in  the  glad  light  sparkled  near. 

The  heart  that  thrilled  to  love  before, 
To  love's  soft  strain  would  thrill  no  more ; 
The  light  of  her  young  life  had  fled, 
Too  well  they  knew  that  she  was  dead  ; 
Yet  better  far  thus  to  have  died 
Than  to  have  been  a  Tory's  bride. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  185 

Now  oft  besides  that  cooling  spring, 
The  little  children  play  and  sing, 

And  in  that  sylvan  dell 
Full  many  a  form  of  maiden  grace 
Treads  lightly  o'er  the  hallowed  place 

Where  she,  the  fated,  fell. 


On  Saratoga's  battle  plains, 

Where  low  the  British  standard  lay, 
The  murdered  maiden's  gory  stains, 

In  British  blood  were  washed  away. 
The  glory  of  that  triumph  day 
Avenged  the  death  of  Jane  McCrea. 

The  old  man  paused;  the  trembling  tones, 

That  woke  the  bright  unconscious  tear, 
Sad  as  the  low  wind's  music  moans, 

Died  on  my  rapt  and  listening  ear. 
Then  in  the  solemn  evening  time, 
When  vesper  bells  had  ceased  to  chime, 

And  all  the  quiet  air 
Was  hushed,  as  if  this  world  of  ours 
Had  closer  clasped  the  trees  and  flowers, 
And  whispered  peace  through  all  her  bowers, 

And  bowed  her  heart  in  prayer ; 
A  hush  upon  my  reverent  soul, 
An  awe  that  o'er  my  being  stole, 

Mournful  I  turned  away, 
And  left  the  worn  old  soldier  there, 
His  white  locks  streaming  in  the  air, 
The  dew  upon  his  forehead  bare, 
And  left  the  consecrated  ground 
Where  holy  memories  clustered  round 

The  grave  of  Jane  McCrea. 


186  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

JANE  McCREA. 
BY  HENRY  WILLIAM  HERBERT.* 

IT  was  brilliant  autumn  time— 

The  most  brilliant  time  of  all, 
When  the  gorgeous  woods  are  gleaming, 

Ere  the  leaves  begin  to  fall ; 

*  Henry  William  Herbert,  author,  born  in  London, 
England,  April  7th,  1807;  died  in  New  York  City 
May  1 7th,  1858.  His  father,  Rev.  William  Herbert, 
was  a  cousin  of  the  Earl  of  Carnarvon,  the  nephew  of 
Lady  Harriet  Ackland,  the  heroine,  together  with 
Mrs.  General  Riedesel,  of  "  Burgoyne's  Campaign." 
(See  Stone's  "  Burgoyne's  Campaign.")  He  graduated 
at  Oxford  in  1829  with  high  honors;  but  having, 
through  the  dishonesty  of  a  trustee,  lost  his  property, 
he  came  the  following  year  to  the  United  States,  sup 
porting  himself  for  several  years  by  teaching  Greek 
and  Latin  in  Newark  and  New  York.  Meanwhile, 
he  added  to  his  income  by  literary  work  for  the  differ 
ent  magazines  and  newspapers,  and  finally  attained  to  a 
high  degree  of  distinction  as  a  writer.  He  wrote  many 
novels  and  books  on  the  game  of  the  United  States, 
under  the  nomde  plume  of  Frank  Forrester,  all  of  which 
were  highly  praised  by  the  literary  critics.  During  the 
last  twelve  years  of  his  life  his  home  was  near  Belleville, 
N.  J.,  and  he  lived  here,  like  Charles  Lee  of  Revolu 
tionary  fame,  surrounded  by  his  favorite  dogs,  of 
which  he  was  especially  fond.  His  end  was  particu 
larly  tragic,  he  having  committed  suicide  by  shooting 
himself,  after  a  dinner  to  which  he  had  invited  his 
particular  friends.  A  movement  (1893)  has  been  set 
on  foot  to  erect  a  monument  to  his  memory.  At 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  187 

When  the  maple  boughs  are  crimson, 
And  the  hickory  shines  like  gold, 

And  the  noons  are  sultry  hot, 
And  the  nights  are  frosty  cold. 

When  the  country  has  no  green, 

Save  the  sword-grass  by  the  rill, 
And  the  willows  in  the  valley, 

And  the  pine  upon  the  hill ; 
When  the  pippin  leaves  the  bough, 

And  the  sumach's  fruit  is  red, 
And  the  quail  is  piping  loud 

From  the  buckwheat  where  he  fed. 

When  the  sky  is  blue  as  steel, 

And  the  river  clear  as  glass  ; 
When  the  mist  is  on  the  mountain, 

And  the  net-work  on  the  grass  ; 
When  the  harvests  all  are  housed, 

And  the  farmer's  work  is  done, 
And  the  stubbles  are  deserted 

For  the  fox-hound  and  the  gun. 

It  was  brilliant  autumn  time 

When  the  army  of  the  north, 
With  its  cannon  and  dragoons, 

And  its  riflemen,  came  forth ; 
Through  the  country  all  abroad 

There  was  spread  a  mighty  fear 
Of  the  Indians  in  the  van, 

And  the  Hessians  in  the  rear. 

present  a  plain  stone  marks  his  grave  in  the  Mount 
Pleasant  Cemetery,  and  on  it  is  carved,  according  to 
his  Wishes,  the  word  Infelicissimus — a  word  the  signi 
fication  of  which  is  a  most  sad  commentary  on  his  life. 


183  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

There  was  spread  a  mighty  terror, 

And  the  bravest  souls  were  faint ; 
For  the  shaven  chiefs  were  mustered, 

In  their  scalp-locks  and  their  paint; 
And  the  forest  was  alive— 

And  the  tramp  of  warrior  men 
Scared  the  eagle  from  his  eyry, 

And  the  gray  wolf  from  his  den. 

For  the  bold  Burgoyne  was  marching — 

With  his  thousands  marching  down, 
To  do  battle  with  the  people — 

To  do  battle  for  the  crown. 
But  Stark  he  lay  at  Bennington, 

By  the  Hoosic's  river  bright, 
And  Arnold  and  his  forces 

Gathered  thick  on  Bemis'  height* 

Fort  Edward  on  the  Hudson, 
It  was  guarded  night  and  day, 

By  Van  Vechten  and  his  woodmen- 
Bright  sturdy  woodmen  they ! 

Fort  Edward  on  the  Hudson, 
It  was  guarded  day  and  night, 

Oh  !  but  in  the  early  morning 
It  saw  a  bitter  sight ! 

A  bitter  sight,  and  fearful, 

And  a  shameful  deed  of  blood ! 
All  the  plain  was  cleared  around, 

But  the  slopes  were  thick  with  wood ; 
And  a  mighty  pine  stood  there, 

On  the  summit  of  the  hill, 

*  For  the  correct  spelling  of  the  name  of  Bemis,  see 
Appendix  No.  III. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  189 

And  a  bright  spring  rose  beneath  it, 
With  a  low  and  liquid  trill ; 

And  a  little  way  below, 

All  with  vine  boughs  overrun, 

A  white-walled  cot  was  sleeping- 
There  that  shameful  deed  was  done  ! 

Oh  !  it  was  the  blithest  morning 
In  the  brilliant  autumn  time  ; 

The  sun  shone  never  brighter, 
When  the  year  was  in  its  prime. 

But  a  maiden  fair  was  weeping 

In  that  cottage  day  by  day, 
Woe  she  was  and  worn  with  watching 

For  her  true  love  far  away. 
He  was  bearing  noble  arms, 

Noble  arms  for  England's  king  ! 
She  was  watching,  sad  and  tearful, 

Near  the  pine  tree,  near  the  spring  !* 

Weary  waiting  for  his  coming- 
Yet  she  feared  not ;  for  she  knew 


*  Until  1855  there  stood  a  clump  of  primeval  giant 
pines  on  the  rise  of  a  knoll  just  at  the  left  of  the 
highway  leading  from  Fort  Edward  to  Sandy  Hill, 
N.  Y.,  from  the  roots  of  which  issued  an  unfailing  spring. 
By  indisputable  and  unvaried  tradition  underneath 
these  pines  the  hapless  Jane  McCrea  was  massacred. 
About  this  time  Mr.  George  Harvey,  the  then  owner 
of  this  classic  site,  caused  the  last  surviving  pine  to  be 
turned  into  canes,  as  souvenirs  of  this  incident  in  the 
Burgoyne  campaign. 


190  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

That  her  lover's  name  would  guard  her, 
That  her  lover's  heart  was  true. 

True  he  was  ;  nor  did  forget, 

As  he  marched  the  wildwoods  through, 

Her  to  whom  his  troth  was  plighted 
By  the  Hudson's  waters  blue.* 


*  Mrs.  Rachael  Ayrs  Cook,  widow  of  Ransom 
Cook,  who  died  at  her  home  in  Saratoga  aged  ninety- 
two  years,  was  one  of  the  last  surviving  links  that 
bound  the  present  with  what  was  one  of  the  most 
romantic  and  decisive  incidents  of  the  American  Revo 
lution.  She  was  the  daughter  of  Robert  Ayrs,  a  Loy 
alist  settler  in  what  is  now  the  town  of  Saratoga 
Springs,  about  midway  between  this  village  and  Ball- 
ston.  It  was  her  father,  Robert  Ayrs,  who  carried  the 
message  to  Jennie  McCrea  in  Fort  Edward  from  her 
Loyalist  lover,  Lieutenant  David  Jones,  in  Burgoyne's 
army,  encamped  on  the  highlands  to  the  north,  re 
questing  her  to  join  him  in  the  camp.  It  was  while 
Jennie  was  on  her  way  to  meet  her  lover  that  she  was 
tomahawked  and  scalped  by  the  savage  Iroquois  chief 
Le  Loup,  and  that  event  led  many  of  the  Loyalist  set 
tlers,  including  Robert  Ayrs  himself,  to  join  the  patriot 
army  under  General  Gates  at  Bemis  Heights,  and 
materially  aided  in  the  defeat  of  Burgoyne.  Robert 
Ayrs  continued  to  reside  until  his  death  on  the  farm 
where  his  daughter,  Mrs.  Cook  (who  was  the  last  sur 
vivor  of  his  family),  was  born,  and  he  is  buried  in  the 
old  village  cemetery  at  Ballston  Spa.  Her  husband, 
Ransom  Cook,  was  the  builder  and  first  agent  and 
warden  of  the  State  prison  at  Dannemora.  He  was 
also  the  inventor  of  the  brace  and  bit,  which  brought 
him  and  the  family  a  large  fortune. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  191 

He  bethought  him  of  the  madness 

And  the  fury  of  the  strife  ; 
He  bethought  him  of  the  peril 

To  that  dear  and  precious  life, 
So  he  called  an  Indian  chief, 

In  his  paint  and  war-array — 
Oh  !  it  was  a  cursed  thought, 

And  it  was  a  luckless  day. 

"4'Go!"  he  said,  "and  seek  my  lady, 

By  Fort  Edward,  where  she  lies; 
Have  her  hither  to  the  camp ! 

She  shall  prove  a  worthy  prize  !" 
And  he  charged  him  with  a  letter, 

With  a  letter  to  his  dear, 
Bidding  her  to  follow  freely, 

And  that  she  should  nothing  fear 

Lightly,  brightly,  rose  the  sun  ; 

High  his  heart,  and  full  of  mirth ; 
Gray  and  gloomy  closed  the  night; 

Steamy  mists  bedewed  the  earth, 
Thence  he  never  ceased  to  sorrow, 

Till  his  tedious  life  was  o'er — 
For  that  night  he  thought  to  see  her ; 

But  he  never  saw  her  more. 

By  the  pine  tree  on  the  hill, 

Armed  men  were  at  their  post, 
While  the  early  sun  was  low, 

Watching  for  the  royal  host. 
Came  a  rifle's  sudden  crack  ! 

Rose  a  wild  and  fearful  yell  ! 
Rushed  the  Indians  from  the  brake ! 

Fled  the  guard,  or  fought  and  fell  ! 


192  The  Bwrgoyne  Ballads. 

Fought  and  fell !  and  fiercely  o'er  them 

Rose  the  hideous  death  hallo  ! 
One  alone  was  spared  of  all — 

Wounded  he,  and  pinioned  too  ! 
He  it  was  the  deed  that  saw, 

As  he  lay  the  spring  beside— 
Had  his  manly  arms  been  free, 

He  had  saved  her,  or  had  died  ! 

Up  the  hill  he  saw  them  lead  her, 

And  she  followed  free  from  fear — 
And  her  beauty  blazed  the  brighter, 

As  she  deemed  her  lover  near- 
He  could  read  the  joyous  hope 

Sparkling  in  her  sunny  eyes — 
Lo  !  the  sudden  strife  !  the  rage  ! 

They  are  battling  for  the  prize  ! 

Guns  are  brandished — knives  are  drawn  ! 

Flashed  the  death-shot,  flew  the  ball ! 
By  the  chief  who  should  have  saved  her, 

Did  the  lovely  victim  fall. 
Fell,  and  breathed  her  lover's  name, 

Blessed  him  with  her  latest  sigh, 
Happier  than  he  surviving, 

Happier  was  she  to  die. 

Then  the  frantic  savage  seized  her 

By  the  long  and  flowing  hair, 
Bared  the  keen  and  deadly  knife, 

Whirled  aloft  the  tresses  fair- 
Yelled  in  triumph  and  retreated, 

Bearing  off  that  trophy  dread- 
Think  of  him  who  sent  them  forth  ! 

Who  received  it — reeking  red  ! 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  193 

He  received  it,  cold  as  stone, 

With  a  ghastly,  stupid  stare, 
Shook  not,  sighed  not,  questioned  not— 

Oh  !  he  knew  that  yellow  hair  ! 
And  he  never  smiled  again, 

Nor  was  ever  seen  to  weep  ; 
And  he  never  spoke  to  name  her, 

Save  when  muttering  in  his  sleep  ! 

Yet  he  did  his  duty  well, 

With  a  chill  and  cheerless  heart ; 
But  he  never  seemed  to  know  it, 

Though  he  played  a  soldier's  part. 
Years  he  lived — for  grief  kills  not— 

But  his  very  life  was  dead  ; 
Scarcely  died  he  any  more 

When  the  clay  was  o'er  his  head  ! 

Would  ye  further  learn  of  her  ? 
Visit  then  the  fatal  spot ! 

There  no  monument  they  raised, 
Stoned  stones  they  sculptured  not ; 

But  the  mighty  pine  is  there- 
Go,  and  ye  may  see  it  still, 

Gray  and  ghostly,  but  erect, 
On  the  summit  of  the  hill ; 

And  the  little  fount  wells  out, 

Cold  and  clear  beneath  its  shade, 
Cold  and  clear  as  when  beside  it 

Fell  that  young  and  lovely  maid. 
These  shall  witness  for  the  tale, 

How,  on  that  accursed  day, 
Beauty,  innocence,  and  youth 

Died  in  hapless  JANE  McCREA. 


194  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

REFLECTIONS  AT  THE  GRAVE  OF  JANE 
McCREA* 

AND  thus  it  is, 

The  bright  and  beautiful,  and  wise, 
The  puling  youngster,  and  the  gray-haired  sage, 
Manhood  and  youth,  and  infancy  and  age, 
Alike  yield  up  their  struggling,  passing  breath- 
Alike  are  subject  to  the  grim  fiend  Death. 

Alike,  yet  not  alike, 

For  I  wist  not,  that  it  is  death  to  strike 
The  sudden  blow,  beneath  some  summer  flower, 
And  then  transplant  it  into  soil  more  pure, 
That  it  may  waste  its  fragrant  sweetness  where 
More  rare  exotics  bloom  and  scent  the  air. 

A  lowly  mound, 

But  marked  from  those  that's  gathered  round, 
By  slab  unstoried  all,  and  neither  tells 
The  name,  nor  worth,  nor  fame,  of  her  that  dwells 
Beneath  the  sod,  within  the  grave's  dark  gloom, 
Our  last-sought  resting-place,  and  common  doom. 

She  fell  by  hands 

Of  savage  violence  ; — the  gleaming  brands 
Of  war  were  gathered  far,  and  near  around 
And  seeking  love  she  fell ; — the  lover  found 
Was  Death  ;  and  in  one  long  embrace, 
With  icy  lips,  he  pressed  her  marble  face. 

FORT  EDWARD,  Nov.  5,  1842. 

*  The  above  lines  were  written  for,  and  published  in, 
the  Saratoga  Sentinel  at  the  date  herein  named.  The 
author  is  unknown. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  195 


JANE   McCREA. 

Read  on   the    One   Hundredth   Anniversary  of  the 
Massacre  of  Jane  McCrea,  July  27,  1877. 

BY  JOSEPH  E,  KING.* 

WHAT  is  to-day — is  only  what  hath  been, 
"  One  touch  of  Nature  makes  us  all  akin." 

*  Rev.  Joseph  E.  King  was  born  in  Laurens,  Otsego 
County,  N.  Y.,  November  3Oth,  1823 ;  the  son  of  Rev. 
Elijah  King,  a  Methodist  clergyman,  and  a  member  of 
the  old  Genesee  Conference. 

At  the  age  of  thirteen,  for  a  few  months  in  a  dry  goods 
store  in  Albany,  he  then  rejoined  the  family,  who 
"  went  west,"  as  far  as  Girard,  Erie  County,  Pa.,  where, 
with  an  interval  of  a  single  term  only  in  a  select  school, 
he  was  kept  at  the  business  of  clerking  in  the  village 
store  until  the  age  of  seventeen.  At  this  period  the  desire 
for  better  educational  advantages  so  inflamed  him  that 
he  wrote  to  his  parents  an  argument  of  four  pages  of 
foolscap,  which  quite  convinced  them  that  he  must  be 
permitted  and  encouraged  to  prepare  for  and  go 
through  college.  The  preparation  was  at  once  begun 
at  the  Grand  River  Institute,  Austinburgh,  Ohio, 
whither  the  family  moved,  to  make  for  him  a  home. 

The  student,  in  1843,  entered  Poultney  Academy, 
N.  Y.,  then  under  Rev.  Jesse  T.  Peck  (now  Bishop), 
to  prepare  for  advanced  standing  in  college.  In  1844 
admitted  to  the  sophomore  class  in  Wesleyan  Univer 
sity,  he  took  rank  among  the  foremost  of  his  class,  de 
spite  the  fact  that  he  had  to  be  absent  each  winter  in 
the  Grammar  School  of  Glastenbury,  which  he  taught. 
In  his  senior  year  he  was  elected  to  the  Phi  Beta 


196  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Love  well  befits  the  poet's  lofty  rhyme, 
No  fairer  blossom  on  the  trees  of  Time. 

Kappa,  graduating  from  Wesleyan  in  1847,  m  the 
class  which  produced  Orange  Judd,  Senator  Cole,  of 
California,  and  Bishop  Andrews. 

In  1848  he  was  made  principal  of  the  seminary  at 
Newbury,  Vt.  Though  among  his  predecessors  had 
been  such  men  as  Rev.  Doctors  Hinman,  Adams  and 
Hoyt,  and  Bishop  Osman  C.  Baker,  yet  during  the 
reign  of  Professor  King  this  seminary  enjoyed  its 
highest  intellectual  and  financial  prosperity.  He  paid 
its  debts,  reconstructed  its  chapel  and  class-rooms, 
built  its  public  fountain,  and  brought  the  roll  of  its 
adult  students  up  to  325  in  attendance  at  the  time  of 
his  retiring  in  November,  1853. 

Accepting  a  call  to  his  native  State,  he  assumed  the 
principalship  of  Fort  Plain  Seminary,  N.  Y.,  and  in 
November,  1853,  five  days  after  his  term  closed  at  New 
bury,  he  opened  its  first  term — all  its  rooms  filled  with 
students.  During  this  year  at  Fort  Plain,  beside  the 
lecturing  of  his  position,  his  register  shows  that  he 
preached  59  times  in  23  different  pulpits. 

It  being  in  contemplation  to  erect  at  Fort  Edward 
an  institution  on  a  grander  scale  than  any  existing 
boarding  seminary,  the  principal  of  Fort  Plain  Semi 
nary  was  invited  to  visit  the  town,  with  a  view  to  give 
his  advice  in  the  proposed  enterprise.  In  connection 
with  Rev.  Henry  B.  Taylor  he  matured  the  plans,  as 
sisted  at  the  laying  of  the  corner-stone  in  May,  1854, 
and  was  induced  to  assume  the  principalship  of  Fort  Ed 
ward  Institute  for  a  term  of  icyears.  December  7, 1 854, 
he  opened  the  first  term  with  500  students  in  attend 
ance,  and  during  the  23  years  of  its  subsequent  history 
he  has  been  its  sole  principal,  registering  over  10,000 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  197 

Trampled  and  bruised,  its  fragrance  yet  appears 
Despite  the  havoc  of  a  hundred  years  ! 

different  names,  hailing  from  over  33  of  the  States  of 
the  Union.  Many  of  his  students  have  taken  conspic 
uous  places  among  the  successful  men  and  women  of 
this  generation.  Over  100  of  his  students  joined  in 
the  war  for  maintaining  the  Union,  of  whom  18  gave 
their  lives  that  the  nation  might  not  die.  A  few  of 
his  young  men  also  fought  on  the  Confederate  side. 
He  has  sent  out  165  clergymen  of  the  various  denomi 
nations,  of  whom  already  12  have  become  Doctors  of 
Divinity.  The  lawyers  and  physicians  have  been 
almost  as  numerous. 

In  1862  Union  College  conferred  the  degree  of 
D.D.  upon  Professor  King,  and  in  1873  the  Regents 
of  the  University  of  New  York,  in  recognition  of  his 
efficiency  as  an  educator,  conferred  upon  him  the 
degree  of  Ph.D. 

In  the  discharge  of  his  duties  as  principal  of  Fort 
Edward  Institute,  he  has  lectured  before  the  faculty 
and  students  over  300  times,  and  has  found  leisure  to 
deliver  outside  the  walls  of  the  Institute  210  lectures 
and  addresses,  besides  having  preached  1032  sermons 
in  182  different  pulpits.  From  the  sessions  of  the 
conference  of  clergymen  of  which  he  is  a  member,  he 
has  never  been  absent  for  a  day.  In  1864  he  was 
elected  by  his  brethren  a  delegate  to  the  General 
Conference  of  the  M.  E.  Church  at  Philadelphia, 
having  also  enjoyed  the  honor  of  serving  as  a  delegate 
to  the  General  Conference  of  1856,  representing  the 
Vermont  Conference,  from  which  he  was  transferred 
to  the  Troy  Conference,  on  a  vote  of  that  conference 
requesting  it.  For  two  weeks  he  served  as  acting 
delegate  in  the  General  Conference  at  Chicago,  in  1868. 


198  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

We  greet  with  reverent  tenderness  to-day 
The  fond  and  true,  the  martyr'd  Jane  McCrea. 

Behold  the  picture — blond  and  passing  fair, 
With  twenty  summers  in  her  golden  hair, 
The  winsome  graces  of  old  Scotia's  blood 
Blooming  afresh  in  her  bright  maidenhood. 
To  see  her  was  to  love,  and  one  that  saw 
Deemed  it  no  violence  to  Nature's  law 
To  woo  and  win  her  as  his  promised  bride, 
Elect  to  him  o'er  all  the  world  beside. 

Once  he  has  been  called  upon  to  address  the  Alumni 
of  his  college,  once  to  deliver  the  oration  before  the 
convention  of  Psi  Upsilon — his  college  fraternity — and 
twice  to  deliver  the  annual  poem  at  Psi  Upsilon 
conventions. 

In  1867  he  gave  himself  a  special  vacation  of  about 
three  months  abroad;  again  in  1889,  chiefly  in  the 
British  Isles,  France  and  "Belgium. 

By  way  of  recreation  from  the  severer  routine  of 
his  educational  and  spiritual  tasks,  he  enjoys  helping 
with  his  presence  and  counsels  the  various  institutions 
and  corporations  in  which  he  takes  an  interest.  Be 
sides  being  a  working  trustee  in  Fort  Edward  Institute, 
he  is  also  a  trustee  or  a  director  in  the  following  cor 
porations  :  Wesle/an  University,  Syracuse  Univer 
sity,  Round  Lake  Camp  Meeting  Association,  Me- 
chanicville  Academy,  the  Union  Cemetery  Associa 
tion,  the  National  Bank  of  Fort  Edward,  two  banks 
in  Iowa,  and  the  Glens  Falls  Insurance  Association. 

He  aims  to  set  the  example  to  his  young  men  of 
rarely  being  absent  from  the  primary  meetings  of  his 
political  party,  from  the  home  councils  of  his  church 
or  the  convocations  of  his  fellow-workers  in  the  cause 
of  education. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  199 

What  though  the  fates,  unequal  or  malign, 

Had  cast  his  lot  within  the  British  line  ? 

Can  love  be  gauged  by  rules  of  trade  or  war? 

Not  Mercury  or  Mars  is  man's  true  ruling  star ; 

When  Venus  rises,  turns  each  heart  to  her, 

Savage  or  saint,  a  willing  worshipper. 

The  patriot  maiden  pledged  her  willing  troth 

To  country  and  to  lover — true  to  both— 

And  felt  no  discord  in  her  evening  prayer 

That  heaven  the  one  might  bless,  the  other  spare. 

Nor  may  we  blame  our  heroine  of  yore, 

If  not  the  less  our  cause,  she  loved  her  hero  more. 

A  message  comes :  "  Why  should  this  dreadful  strife 
Rob  me  of  mine  ?     Thou  art  my  promised  wife  ? 
The  guide  is  safe,  thou'lt  reach  the  camp  ere  night, 
Then  I'll  protect  thee  in  a  husband's  right." 

Between  two  camps,  awaiting  mortal  strife, 
Why  need  she  fear  ?     Love  bears  a  charmed  life. 
Coyly  emerging  from  yon  mansion's  side, 
With  springing  step  she  joined  the  savage  guide. 
Girt  for  the  perils  of  the  path  she  trod, 
In  maiden  innocence  and  faith  in  God. 
The  breeze,  fair  girl,  that  fans  your  cheek  to-day 
Toyed  with  her  tresses  on  her  blithesome  way ; 
The  bee  saluted  with  his  tiny  horn, 
Waved  in  the  noontide  rays  the  tasselled  corn  ; 
The  flowers  grew  brighter  underneath  her  tread, 
Bluer  the  arching  sky  above  her  head. 

The  hill  was  gained.     Sudden,  the  startled  guide 
Clutched  at  the  girl,  now  trembling  at  his  side. 
A  skirmish  rages  from  the  opposing  lines, 
And  maddened  chiefs  contend  beneath  the  pines. 
In  vain  she  seeks  to  flee  !    A  fatal  blow 
Pierces  her  brain.     And  then  the  fiendish  foe, 


200  The  Burgoyne  Ballads 

As  sinks  the  wretched  maiden  limp  and  dead, 
Tears  off  the  golden  glory  from  her  fallen  head ! 
A  thousand  curses  on  that  savage  hate, 
To  murder  first,  and  then  to  mutilate  ! 
Plead  beauty,  youth  and  innocence,  that  day, 
But  plead  in  vain  for  hapless  Jane  McCrea. 
The  ruthless  fiend,  his  task  yet  incomplete, 
Dashed  down  the  bloody  trophy  at  her  lover's  feet. 
Unpitying  Indian!  Heaven  shall  pay  thee  back, 
Its  heavy  vengeance  marks  henceforth  thy  track. 
Pushed  ever  towards  the  still  receding  west 
Thy  wasting  tribes  shall  plead  in  vain  for  rest. 

For  her,  what  heart  withholds  a  votive  sigh  ? 
Poor  trampled  flower  that  in  the  dust  doth  lie  ! 
Denied  her  woman's  rightful  place  in  life, 
To  rule  her  home,  a  proud  and  happy  wife, 
Yet  Heaven  doth  martyred  innocence  befriend, 
And  in  her  fadeless  fame  a  compensation  send. 
How  many  gallant  youths  rushed  forth  to  join 
The  patriot  ranks,  and  crush  the  proud  Burgoyne ! 
Ten  thousand  men,  at  Saratoga's  day, 
Struck  home  for  "liberty  and  Jane  McCrea." 
Had  love  coursed  smoothly  o'er  life's  pebble  stones, 
Long  since  forgot,  as  "Mrs.  David  Jones  ;" 
Forgot,  with  every  other  humble  name, 
That  time  erases  from  the  lists  of  fame. 
Now,  all  the  world  beholds,  serene  and  fair, 
'Graved  in  the  azure  of  the  upper  air, 
And  reads  in  capitals  of  flame  to-day 
One  only  name,  the  gentle  Jane  McCrea. 
And  David  Jones,  forsooth,  despite  his  British  pride, 
Gains  fadeless  laurels  through  his  Yankee  bride. 
They're  gone  !  all  gone  !  in  vain  we  search  around 
Where  armies  trampled  this  historic  ground  ; 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  201 

Fields  rent  and  scarred  by  war  retain  no  trace, 
Which  Time's  all-lev'ling  touch  cannot  efface. 
Of  yonder  fort,  which  saw  a  nation's  birth, 
Remains  alone  a  ridge  of  common  earth. 
Still  flows  the  rippling  river  to  the  sea, 
The  type  of  loving  woman's  constancy ; 
And  on  its  banks  do  other  forts  arise, 
Churches  and  schools,  the  States'  best  armories. 

Nigh  to  our  martyrs'  monumental  stone 
Is  ^trysting  tree"  to  village  youths  well  known  ; 
Tis  there,  when  lovers  plight  their  sacred  troth, 
Her  guardian  presence  comes  to  bless  them  both. 

The  hillside  pines  which  saw  her  fall  that  day 

Themselves  have  fallen,  victims  of  decay  ; 

But  from  their  roots  there  flows  a  living  spring, 

Whose  clear,  cool  waters,  gently  murmuring 

In  sweet  and  mournful  cadence,  seem  to  say, 

Here  fell  the  fair  and  fond  but  hapless  Jane  McCrea. 


THE  TRAGICAL   DEATH    OF   MISS  JANE 

McCREA, 

Who  was  scalped  and  intmmanly  bzitchered  by  a  scout 
ing  party  of  Burgoyne  s  army  on  his  way  toward 
Albany. 

BY  REV.  WHEELER  CASE. 

As  I  was  passing  thro'  a  certain  wood 

I  heard  a  doleful  noise  ;  surpris'd  I  stood— 

I  lent  a  list'ning  ear — but  oh,  what  moans  ! 

The  woods  all  rang  with  shrieks  and  dying  groans. 

Upon  a  rising  ground  I  cast  my  eye 

And  saw  a  scouting  party  passing  by, 

Some  British  troops,  combined  with  Indian  bands, 

With  swords,  with  knives  and  tom'hawks  in  their  hands 


202  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

They  gave  a  shout  and  pass'd  along  the  road, 

Like  beasts  of  prey  in  quest  of  human  blood. 

I  mov'd  along  where  I  had  heard  the  cries, 

And  lo  !  a  bloody  scene  salutes  my  eyes  ; 

Here  lies  an  aged  man,  roll'd  in  his  gore, 

And  from  his  hoary  head  his  scalp  is  tore. 

There  lies  a  woman  dead,  all  gashed  her  face, 

A  sucking  babe  just  dropp'd  from  her  embrace. 

There  lies  the  slaughter'd  infant  on  a  clod, 

Its  head  all  bruis'd  and  face  besmear'd  with  blood. 

As  I  advanc'd  along,  before  me  lay 

A  lady  richly  dress'd,  her  name  McCrea  ; 

Stretch'd   on   the  ground,  and  struggling  there  with 

death, 

She  cannot  live,  she  must  resign  her  breath. 
The  cursed  Indian  knife,  the  cruel  blade, 
Had  cut  her  scalp,  they'd  tore  it  from  her  head  ; 
The  blood  is  gushing  forth  from  all  her  veins, 
With  bitter  groans  and  sighs  she  tells  her  pains. 
Is  this  that  blooming  fair,  is  this  McCrea  f 
This  was  appointed  for  her  nuptial  day. 
Instead  of  smiles,  and  a  most  brilliant  bride, 
Her  face  besmear'd  with  blood,  her  raiment  dyed. 
Instead  of  pleasure  and  transporting  joys, 
There's  naught  but  dying  groans  and  bitter  sighs  ; 
For,  overvvhelm'd  with  grief,  alas  !  I  faint ; 
It  is  too  much  for  language  e'er  to  paint. 
Would  heav'n  admit  of  tears  her  rev'rend  sire* 
Would  now  look  down  and  o'er  her  drop  a  tear  ; 
A  flood  of  tears  down  from  his  eyes  would  flow 
O'er  his  dear  child,  touch'd  with  her  fatal  woe. 
Methinks  he  now  attempts  to  speak — too  full, 
With  sighs  he  tells  the  anguish  of  his  soul. 

*  The  Rev.  Mr.  McCrea  of  New  Jersey. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  203 

In  broken  accents  now  I  hear  him  say, 

Is  this  the  plant  I  raised  ?     Is  this  McCrea  ? 

Is  this  my  Jenny  roll'd  in  blood  I  see, 

Whom  I  caress' d  and  dandled  on  my  knee  ? 

If  e'er  she  was  in  pain  I  felt  the  smart, 

If  but  her  finger  ach'd,  it  pained  my  heart, 

But  now  she's  mangled  with  the  Indian  knife, 

With  groans  and  sighs  she's  breathing  out  her  life. 

Oh,  cruel  savages  !  what  hearts  of  steel  ! 

Oh,  cruel  Britons  who  no  pity  feel ! 

Where  did  they  get  the  knife,  the  cruel  blade  ? 

From  Britain  it  was  sent  where  it  was  made. 

The  tom'hawk  and  the  murdering  knife  were  sent 

To  barb'rous  savages  for  this  intent. 

Yes,  they  were  sent  e'en  from  the  British  throne. 

Is  this  for  acts  of  duty  I  have  done  ? 

How  oft  have  I  address'd  the  throne  of  Grace 

For  Britain's  king  and  all  his  rising  race ! 

How  oft  with  tears,  that  God  would  be  their  friend, 

That  peace  and  happiness  might  them  attend ! 

No  fiction  this,  the  muse  hath  seen  him  stand 
With  eyes  erect,  and  with  uplifted  hands 
Within  the  sacred  desk  ;  she'd  heard  him  plead 
For  Britain's  king  and  all  the  royal  seed  ; 
How  oft,  with  earnest  cries  and  flowing  tears, 
For  blessings  on  the  king  and  all  his  heirs. 

JANE  McCREA. 
BY   JOEL    BARLOW.* 

#  #        #        #         #         #         *          •*          # 
ONE  deed  shall  tell  what  fame  great  Albion   draws 
From  those  auxiliars  in  her  bar'brous  cause— 

*  Joel    Barlow,  author,    born    in    Redding,  Conn., 
March  24th,  1754  ;  died  near  Cracow,  Poland,  Decem- 


204:  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Lucinda's  fate.     The  tale  ye  nations  hear  ; 
Eternal  ages  trace  it  with  a  tear. 

[In  searching  for  her  lover,  who  is  designated  by 
the  name  of  Heartly  in  the  narrative,  and  from  whom 
she  has  become  separated,  she  strays  into  the  woods, 
and  he  in  turn  begins  a  search  for  her.] 

He  hurries  to  his  tent ;  oh,  rage  !  despair ! 
No  glimpse,  no  tidings  of  the  frantic  fair  ; 
Save  that  some  car-men,  as  a-camp  they  drove, 
Had  seen  her  coursing  for  the  western  grove. 
Faint  with  fatigue,  and  chok'd  with  burning  thirst, 
Forth  from  his  friends  with  bounding  leap  he  burst, 
Vaults  o'er  the  palisade,  with  eyes  on  flame, 
And  fills  the  welkin  with  Lucinda's  name. 

ber  24th,  1812.  Graduated  from  Yale  in  1778,  deliver 
ing  the  commencement  poem,  "  Prospect  of  Peace" 
(published  in  "American  Poems,"  Litchfield,  Conn., 
1793).  In  1787  he  published  at  Hartford  his  epic 
poem,  "  The  Vision  of  Columbus,"  which  made  him 
famous,  and  afterward  his  most  popular  poem,  the 
"  Hasty  Pudding."  He  was  United  States  Consul  at 
Algiers  in  1795.  He  resided  afterward  for  eight 
years  at  Paris,  living  the  life  of  a  man  of  letters,  and 
writing  there  his  poem,  "  The  Columbiad,"  and  making 
extensive  preparations  for  a  history  of  the  American 
Revolution  and  one  work  on  the  French  Revolution. 
He  was  also,  like  Freneau,  one  of  the  most  prolific  and 
famous  writers  of  the  Revolutionary  period.  He 
introduces  the  subject  of  the  Jane  McCrea  massacre 
as  above,  presenting  Jane  McCrea  under  the  name  of 
"  Lucinda."  In  a  note  accompanying  the  poem,  the 
author  states  that  the  tragica]  story  of  Miss  McCrea  is 
narrated  almost  literally. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  205 

The  fair  one,  too,  of  every  aid  forlorn, 
Had  raved  and  wandered,  till  officious  morn 
Awaked  the  Mohawks  from  their  short  repose, 
To  glean  the  plunder  ere  their  comrades  'rose. 
Two  Mohawks  met  the  maid — historian,  hold  ! 
Alas !  that  such  a  tale  should  e'er  be  told. 

She  starts — with  eyes  upturn'd  and  fleeting  breath, 
In  their  raised  axes  views  her  instant  death, 
Her  hair,  half  lost  along  the  shrubs  she  passed, 
Rolls  in  loose  tangles  'round  her  lovely  waist ; 
Her  kerchief  torn  betrays  the  globes  of  snow, 
That  heave  responsive  to  her  weight  of  woe. 

With  calculating  pause  and  demon  grin 

They  seize  her  hands,  and  through  her  face  divine 

Drive  the  descending  axe  ! — The  shriek  she  sent 

Attained  her  lover's  ear ;  he  thither  bent 

With  all  the  speed  his  wearied  limbs  could  yield, 

Whirled  his  keen  blade,  and  stretched  upon  the  field 

The  yelling  fiends,  who  there  disputing  stood 

Her  gory  scalp,  their  horrid  prize  of  blood  ! 

He  sank,  delirious  on  her  lifeless  clay, 

And  passed  in  starts  of  sense,  the  dreadful  day. 


LINES  ON  JANE  McCREA. 

BY  MRS.  SARAH  J.  HALE.* 

OH  !  very  beautiful  was  she, 
A  loveliness  most  rare  to  see. 


*Mrs.  Sarah  Josepha  Hale,  authoress,  born  in  New 
port,  N.  H.,  October  24th,  1788;  died  in  Philadelphia 


206  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Her  eyes  were  like  the  ethereal  hue 
From  Chimborazo's  skyward  view, 
When  stars  begin  to  tremble  through, 
And  not  a  vapor  dims  the  blue  ; 
And  clustering  curls  of  soft  blonde  hair* 
Around  her  throat  and  shoulders  flow, 
Like  morning  light  on  mountain  snow ; 
And  face  so  delicately  fair  ! 

April  3Oth,  1879.  She  edited  the  Ladies'  Magazine, 
in  Boston,  which  she  conducted  till  1837.  ^n  tnat 
year  it  was  united  with  Godeys  Lady's  Book,  pub 
lished  in  Philadelphia,  and  Mrs.  Hale  became  editor 
of  that  periodical,  removing  to  that  city  in  1841.  She 
was  chiefly  instrumental  in  raising  funds  to  complete  the 
Bunker  Hill  Monument,  and  also  in  bringing  about 
the  change  of  Thanksgiving  Day  from  a  State  festival 
to  a  National  one — President  Lincoln  being  the  first 
one  to  adopt  her  suggestion,  in  1864.  She  is  the 
author  of  many  works  and  poems,  among  the  latter 
of  which  are  the  well-known  ones  of  "  Mary's  Lamb" 
and  "  It  Snows." 

*  Although  Jenny's  hair  was  said  to  have  been 
"  dark  as  a  raven's  wing,"  yet  she  has  also  been  de 
scribed  by  those  who  knew  her  as  "  a  young  woman  of 
fine  commanding  form,  rare  beauty,  delicate  blonde 
complexion,  and  glossy,  golden-brown  hair  of  silken 
lustre  and  of  unusual  length."  The  weight  of  evidence 
and  the  probabilities,  it  must  be  said,  are  largely  in 
favor  of  the  description  as  above  quoted.  Nor  must 
it  be  forgotten  that  Jenny  was  of  pure  Scotch  blood, 
and  the  Scotch  are  noted  the  world  over  for  their  fair 
complexion,  blue  eyes,  and  light  hair.  Mrs.  Hale  is, 
therefore,  probably  entirely  correct  in  describing  her 
as  a  blonde. 


The  Buryoyne  Ballads.  207 

Tvvas  like  a  lily  newly  blown, 
Or  like  the  breathing  Parian  stone, 
Softened  by  a  heart  within, 
Sending  love-light  through  the  skin  ! 
Ay!  the  soul's  transparent  vase 
Seemed  that  pure,  pale,  loving  face. 


BALLADS  ON  THE  BATTLE  OF  ORISKANY, 


ORISKANY. 
BY  GENERAL  J.  WATTS  DE  PEYSTER* 

OLD  Seventeen  hundred  and  Seventy-seven, 
Of  Liberty's  throes,  was  the  crown  and  the  leaven. 
Just  a  century  since,  August  Sixth,  was  the  day 
When  Great  Britain's  control  was  first  stricken  away. 
Let  us  sing  then  the  field  where  the  Yeomen  of  York 
Met  the  Lion  and  Wolf  on  their  slaughterous  stalk  ; 
When  Oriskany's  ripples  were  crimson'd  with  blood  ; 
And  when  strife  fratricidal  polluted  its  flood. 
Oh,  glorious  collision,  forever  renowned  ! 
While  America  lives  should  its  praises  resound, 
And  stout  Harkeimer's  name  be  the  theme  of  the  song, 
Who  with  Mohawk's  brave  sons    broke  the  strength 
of  the  strong. 

To  relief  of  Fort  Stanwix  New  Yorkers  drew  nigh, 
To  succor  stout  Gansevoort,  conquer  or  die  ; 
And  if  unwise  the  counsels  that  brought  on  the  fight, 
In  the  battle  was  shown  that  their  hearts  were  all  right. 
If  their  chief  seemed  so  prudent  that  "subs"  looked 

askance, 
Still  one  shout  proved  their   feeling,  their  courage— 

"  Advance  !" 

Most  unfortunate  counsel !     The  ambush  was  set, 
Leaving  one  passage  in  but  none  out  of  the  net,— 
Of  outlets,  not  one,  unless  'twas  made  by  the  sword, 
Through  encompassing  ranks  of  the  pitiless  horde. 

*  For  sketch  of  General  de  Peyster,  see  Appendix 
No.  VII. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  209 

Sure  never  was  column  so  terribly  caught, 
Nor  ever  has  column  more  fearlessly  fought : — 
Thus  Harkeimer's  Mohawkers  made  victory  theirs, 
For  St.  Leger  was  foiled  in  spite  of  his  snares. 

The  loud  braggarts  who'd  taunted  Harkeimer  so  free, 
Ere  the  fight  had  begun,  were  from  fight  first  to  flee ; 
While  the  stalwart  old  chief,  who  a  father  had  proved, 
And  his  life  offered  up  for  the  cause  that  he  loved, 
'Mid  the  war-whirl  of  Death  still  directed  each  move, 
'Mid  the  rain  from  the  clouds   and  from  more   fatal 

groove 

Of  the  deadlier  rifle, — and  object  assured, 
To  him  Palm,  both  as  victor  and  martyr,  inured. 

Search  the  annals  of  War  and  examine  with  care 
If  a  parallel  fight  can  discovered  be,  there, 
When  eight  hundred  green  soldiers  beset  in  a  wood 
Their  assailants,  as  numerous,  boldly  withstood  ; 
And  while  death  sleeted  in  from  environing  screens 
Of  the  forest  and  underbrush,  Indians  and  "  Greens  "- 
'Gainst  the  circle  without,  took  to  cover  within, 
Formed  a  circle  as  deadly — which  as  it  grew  thin 
Into  still  smaller  circles  then  broke,  until  each 
Presented  a  round  that  no  foeman  could  breach, 
Neither  boldest  of  savage  nor  disciplined  troops : — 
Thus  they  fought  and  they  fell  in  heroical  groups — 
But   though  falling  still  fighting  they  wrench'd  from 

the  foe 

The  great  object  they  marched  to  attain,  and  altho' 
The  whole  vale  of  the  Mohawk  was  shrouded  in  woe, 
Fort  Stanwix  was  saved  by  Oriskany's  throe. 

No  New  Birth,  no  advance  in  the  Progress  of  Man, 
Has  occurred  since  the  tale  of  his  suft'rings  began, 
Without  anguish  unspeakable,  deluge  of  blood. 


210 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 


The  Past's  buried  deep  'neath  incarnadine  flood. 
So,  when,  at  Oriskany,  slaughter  had  done 
Its  fell  work  with  the  tomahawk,  hunting-knife,  gun  ; 
From  the  earth  soaked  with  blood,  and  the  whirlwind 

of  fire 

Rose  the  living's  reward  and  the  fallen's  desire. 
Independence ! 

For  there  on  Oriskany's  shore, 
Was  fought  out  the  death-wrestle  deciding  the  war ! 

If  our  country  is  free  and  its  flag,  first  displayed 
On  the  ramparts  of  Stanwix,  in  glories  arrayed ; 
If  the  old  "  Thirteen  Colonies"  won  the  renown 
"Sic  semper  tyrannis  /"  beat  Tyranny  down  ; 
There,  there,  at  Oriskany,  the  wedge  first  was  driven, 
By  which  British  invasion  was  splintered  and  riven, 
Though  at  Hoosic  and  "  Saratog"  the  work  was  com 
pleted, 

The  end  was  made  clear  with  St.  Leger  defeated ; 
Nor  can  boast  be  disproved,  on  Oriskany's  shore 
Was  worked   out  the  grim  problem  involved  in  the 
war. 


3.     Pie  Sdjiadjt  uon  ©rtskamj, 

BY  GEN.  J.  WATTS  DE  PEYSTER. 
3n8  ®eutf$e  uberfefet  won  2K  ar  t  c  23 1 5  b  e. 


When   through    dense    woods    primeval 

bower'd, 

A  perfect  hail  of  bullets  shower'd, 
Where  bold  Thayendanega  tower'd — 
Good  old  Harkeimer  prov'd  no  coward, 
Commanding  at  Oriskany. 

True  to  his  Teuton  lineage, 
Foremost  amidst  the  battle's  rage, 
As  bold  in  fight,  in  council  sage, 
Most  glorious  as  he  quit  the  stage 
Of  life,  by  the  Oriskany. 


2llg  burdj  be§  UrroalbS  laufc'gen  ©ang 
©inft  praffelnb  Kugelrcgen  brang  — 
33o  Sfyaqenbanega'S  SKuIjm  erflang  — 
CDa  roarb  au$  £arfeimer  ni$t  bang', 
©em  gtifyrer  »on  DriSfang. 

SEreu  bent  teutonifcfy=eblen  23lut 
SSoran  in  be§  (S5efe$te§  SButty, 
3m  SRat&e  Hug,  im  ^ampf  cott  2J2ut^> 
Xtnb  rufymretcfy,  ba  cr  cnbllt^  ruljt 
SSora  ©treitc  Bel  Drt^fan^. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 


211 


Altho1  he  felt  the  mortal  wound, 
Though  fell  in  swathes  his  soldiers  round, 
Propped  'gainst  his  saddle,  on  the  ground, 
He  calmly  smok'd,  gave  counsel  sound, 
'Mid  war-whirl  at  Oriskany. 

War  never  fiercer  sight  has  seen 
Than  when  Sir  Johnson's  cohort  green 
Charg'd  on  the  Mohawk  Rangers  keen  : 
The  sole  such  strife  Almanza*  'd  been 
As  that  on  the  Oriskany. 

New  York's  bold  yeomen,  Watts  at  head, 
Breasted  meet  foes— New  Yorkers  bred, 
There,  eye  to  eye,  they  fought,  stabb'd, 

bled, 

Bosom  to  bosom  strove,  fell  dead 
In  ambush  of  Oriskany. 

Alone  can  Berwick's  shudder  tell, 
What  fury  rul'd  that  moment  fell 
When  Frenchman's  steel  hiss'd  French 
man's  knell : 

Horrent  made  the  sole  parallel 
To  battle  of  Oriskany. 

Teeth  with  like  frantic  fury  set, 

There  Frank  died  on  Frank's  bayonet — 

Here    neighbor    death    from    neighbor 

met,- 

With  kindred  blood  both  fields  were  wet, 
Almanza  and  Oriskany. 

And,  ceas'd  the  storm  whose  rage  had 

vied, 

With  ruthless  shock  of  fratricide, 
There  lay  the  Mohawk  Valley's  pride 
Just  as  they  fought,  stark,  side  by  side, 
Along  the  red  Oriskany. 

Though  neither  force  could  triumph  claim 
In  war's  dread,  dazzling,  desp'rate  game, 
Enkindled  there,  the  smould'ring  flame 
Of  freedom  blaz'd,  to  make  thy  name 
All  glorious,  Oriskany. 


Gr  fafj  getrcffcn,  tobe§reunb, 
(Sin  Sjeer  won  SEobten  ittn  tfyn  runb, 
3m  ©attel  aufgefiufct  am  ©runb, 
©ab  raudjenb  9?at§,  ber  ferngefunb, 


9?ie  fdfjlug  ein  §eer  fo  grimmig  b'rein, 
2U§  ba  ©ir  3oljnfott3  grune  SMfy'n, 
SEilb  brcmgen  auf  btc  attofyawIS  etn  ! 
G8  fann  Stlmanja'S  *  ©treit  attein 


2Son  23att3  gefuljrt  unb  fct$t  gefeltt, 
®ort  93rufi  an  SBrufl  sum  S?ampf  geftellt, 
%Ranfy  ein  9Jen>s?}orfer  blutenb  fiQt 
3m 


9?ur  93er»t(f'8  ©Dauber  fagt  e§  liar, 
SSic  grauS  ber  5Eag  be8  ©(^redenS  rear, 
£)a  ^tanjtnann  fc^Iug  bie  etg'ne  ©djaar, 
^orrent  nur  bot  etn  ©Ietd)e§  bar, 
23ie  bie  @d}Iadjt  won  Dri3fanq. 


ttm  3a^n>  fllctc^  jornentbrannt, 
®er  ^tanjmann  ftarb  burd)  franf'fd^e  §anb, 
1)er  9?ad)Bar  ftel,  reo  9?ad)6ar  ftanb, 
Unb  93ruberblut  burd^na^t  ben  ©anb, 


Vlnb  al§  beS  ©turmeS  3;oben  ru^t, 
1)er  SSrubermorb  entfadjt  mit  SSttt^, 
Sag  aftotyarcf  3:^ale§  ©totj  im  93Iut, 
®idjt  wte  fie  fodjten,  ftarf  unb  gut, 
SangS  bent  rotten  DriSfanq. 


DB  Sfeinem  rearb  be8  ©iegeS  Qid 
3m  rcirren  S?ampfe3  ©djauerftnel, 
CDer  grei^eit  glamme,  bie  cerfiet, 
Srftanb  unb  madjte  ru^mreid)  triel 
®en  9?amen  won  SDri§fan^. 


*  ®ie  ©d}Iad)t  »on  2llmanja,  auf  rceldje  ^ier  Sejug  genommen  »irb,  fanb  1707  jreifd)en  ben 
SEruppen  SubreigS  XIV.  unter  bent  graufamen  §erjog  »on  §Ser»i(J  gegen  bie  Gamifarben  unter 
Ca»ali«  flatt. 


BALLADS  ON  THE  BATTLE  OF  ORISKANY, 


P^EAN  TO  ORISKANY. 
BY  REV.  CHARLES  DOWNES  H ELMER,  D.D. 

BELEAGUERED  men  of  Stanwix,  brave  as  those 
Who  faced  a  million  of  their  foes 

At  old  Thermopylae ; 

Good  cheer  to  you  upon  the  wild  frontier! 
For  citizens  in  arms  draw  near 

Across  Oriskany. 

But  hark !  amidst  the  forest  shades  the  crash 
Of  arms,  the  savage  yell — with  flash 

Of  gory  tomahawk ; 

For  Johnson's  Royal-Greens,  and  Leger's  men, 
And  Brant's  Red  Fiends,  are  in  that  glen 

Of  dark  Oriskany. 

From  down  the  valley,  where  the  Mohawk  flows, 
Were  hurrying  on  to  meet  their  foes 

The  patriot  yeomanry ; 
For  Gansevoort  within  his  fortress  lay, 
In  peril  and  besieged  that  day, 

Beyond  Oriskany. 

As  men  who  fight  for  home  and  child  and  wife, 
As  men  oblivious  of  life 

In  holy  martyrdom, 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  213 

The  Yeomen  of  the  Valley  fought  that  day, 
Throughout  thy  fierce  and  deadly  fray — 
Blood-red  Oriskany. 

From  rock  and  tree  and  clump  of  twisted  brush 
The  hissing  gusts  of  battle  rush — 

Hot  breathed  and  horrible ! 
The  roar,  and  smoke,  like  mist  on  stormy  seas, 
Sweep  through  thy  splintered  trees— 

Hard-fought  Oriskany. 

Heroes  are  born  in  such  a  chosen  hour; 
From  common  men  they  rise  and  tower, 

Like  thee,  brave  Herkimer  ! 
Who  wounded,  steedless,  still  beside  the  beech 
Cheered  on  thy  men,  with  sword  and  speech, 

In  grim  Oriskany. 

Now  burst  the  clouds  above  the  battle  roar, 
And  from  the  pitying  skies  down  pour 

Swift  floods  tumultuous ; 

Then  fires  of  strife  unquenched  flame  out  again, 
Drenching  with  hot  and  bloody  rain 

Thy  soil,  Oriskany. 

But  ere  the  sun  went  toward  the  tardy  night, 
The  valley  then  beheld  the  light 

Of  freedom's  victory ; 

And  wooded  Tryon  snatched  from  British  arms 
The  empire  of  a  million  farms— 

On  bright  Oriskany. 

The  guns  of  Stanwix  thundered  to  the  skies  ; 
The  rescued  wilderness  replies ; 

Forth  dash  the  garrison  ! 
And  routed  Tories,  with  their  savage  aids, 
Sink  reddening  through  the  sullied  shades — 

From  lost  Oriskany. 


214:  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Behold,  Burgoyne !  with  hot  and  hating  eyes, 
The  New  World's  flag  at  last  o'erflies 

Your  ancient  Heraldry; 
For  over  Stanwix  floats  triumphantly 
The  rising  Banner  of  the  Free — 

Beyond  Oriskany. 

A  hundred  years  have  passed  since  then ; 
And  hosts  now  rally  there  again — 

To  crown  the  century ; 
The  proud  posterity  of  noble  men 
Who  conquered  in  the  bloody  glen 

Of  famed  Oriskany. 


BALLADS  ON  THE  BATTLE  OF  BENNINGTON, 


ODE  ON  THE  BATTLE  OF  BENNINGTON. 
BY  REV.  E.  H.  CHAPIN,  D.D.* 

THEY  came,  as  brave  men  ever  come, 
To  stand,  to  fight,  to  die ; 

*  Rev.  Edwin  Hubbell  Chapin,  a  distinguished 
Universalist  clergyman  of  New  York,  and  the  pas 
tor  of  Horace  Greeley,  was  born  at  Union  Village, 
Washington  County,  N.  Y.,  and  died  in  New  York 
City,  December  27th,  1880.  He  received  his  early 
training  at  the  Bennington,  Vt.,  Seminary,  and  after 
ward  studied  law  in  Troy,  N.  Y.  Subsequently 
he  removed  to  Utica,  and  became  editor  of  The 
Magazine  and  Advocate,  a  periodical  devoted  to 
the  interests  of  the  Universalists.  He  afterward 
studied  for  the  ministry,  and  was  ordained  in  1837. 
His  first  settlement  was  at  Richmond,  Va.  ;  and  in 
1848  he  was  installed  as  pastor  in  the  Fourth  Uni 
versalist  Church  in  New  York  City.  Dr.  Chapin  was 
long  one  of  the  most  prominent  of  metropolitan 
preachers,  and  his  church  soon  became  one  of  the 
most  noted  in  the  city,  and  to  which  "  throngs  of  both 
church-goers  and  non-church-goers  resorted  whenever 
it  was  known  that  he  would  speak."  He  was  also  a 
very  popular  public  lecturer,  and  his  services  were  in 


216  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

No  thought  of  fear  was  in  the  heart 

No  quailing  in  the  eye ; 
If  the  lip  faltered,  'twas  with  prayer, 

Amid  those  gathering  bands  ; 
For  the  sure  rifle  kept  its  poise 

In  strong,  untrembling  hands. 

They  came  up,  at  the  battle-sound, 

To  old  Walloomsack's  height ; 
Behind  them  were  their  fields  of  toil, 

With  harvest  promise  white  ; 
Before  them  those  who  sought  to  wrest 

Their  hallowed  birthright  dear, 
While  through  their  ranks  went  fearlessly 

Their  leader's  words  of  cheer. 


constant  demand.  As  his  biographer,  in  "  Appleton's 
Biographical  Cyclopaedia,"  justly  says,  "  His  denomi 
national  religious  associations  were  with  the  Univer- 
salists,  but  his  sympathies  were  of  the  broadest 
character,  and  he  numbered  among  his  personal 
friends  many  of  the  stanchest  advocates  of  orthodoxy, 
who  could  not  but  admire  his  eloquence,  however 
much  they  may  have  dissented  from  his  religious 
teaching."  In  1872  he  succeeded  Dr.  Emerson  in 
the  editorship  of  the  Christian  Leader.  He  was 
quite  a  voluminous  writer,  and  with  James  G.  Adams 
as  his  associate,  he  compiled  "  Hymns  for  Christian 
Devotion"  (1870). 

The  above  ode  is  selected  from  some  stanzas  on  the 
battle  of  Bennington  in  1837,  and  delivered  by  him 
in  the  Old  Academy  in  Bennington  Centre.  They 
were  also  published  in  Rev.  Isaac  Jennings's  admirable 
work,  "  Memorials  of  a  Century"  (Boston,  1869). 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  217 

"  My  men,  there  are  our  freedom's  foe, 

And  shall  they  stand  or  fall  ? 
Ye  have  your  weapons  in  your  hands, 

Ye  know  your  duty  all ; 
For  we— this  day  we  triumph  o'er 

The  minions  of  the  crown, 
Or  Molly  Stark's  a  widowed  one 

Ere  yonder  sun  goes  down."  * 

One  thought  of  heaven,  one  thought  of  home, 

One  thought  of  hearth  and  shrine, 
Then,  rock-like,  stood  they  in  their  might 

Before  the  glittering  line. 
A  moment,  and  each  keen  eye  paused 

The  coming  foe  to  mark, 
Then  downward  to  his  barrel  glanced, 

And  strife  was  wild  and  dark. 

It  needs  no  monumental  pile 

To  tell  each  storied  name, 
The  fair  green  hills  rise  proudly  up 

To  consecrate  their  fame. 
True  to  its  trust,  Walloomsack  long 

The  record  bright  shall  bear, 
Who  came  up  at  the  battle  sound 

And  fought  for  freedom  there. 


*  This  is  in  allusion  to  the  tradition  that  on  the  eve 
of  the  battle,  just  as  the  orders  were  given  and  the 
combatants  were  about  to  engage,  General  Stark,  in 
his  saddle,  pointing  in  the  direction  of  the  enemy, 
made  this  laconic  address  :  "  BOYS,  THESE  ARE  THE 
RED-COATS  ;  AND  THEY  ARE  OURS,  OR  THIS  NIGHT  MOLLY 
STARK  SLEEPS  A  WIDOW  !" 


218  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

THE  BATTLE  OF  BENNINGTON. 

BY  WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT.* 

(On  the  occasion  of  the  centennial  of  the  battle  of  Bennington.} 

ON  this  fair  valley's  grassy  breast 
The  calm,  sweet  rays  of  summer  rest, 
And  dove-like  peace  benignly  broods 
On  its  smooth  lawns  and  solemn  woods. 


*  William  Cullen  Bryant,  distinguished  journalist 
and  poet,  born  in  Cummington,  Mass.,  November  3d, 
1794;  died  in  New  York,  June  i2th,  1878.  Of  dis 
tinguished  colonial  ancestry,  he  early  developed  poeti 
cal  power,  and  began  at  an  early  age  to  write  short 
epic  and  satirical  verses  for  the  local  newspapers  and 
magazines,  especially  the  Hampshire  Gazette,  although 
he  was  at  the  same  time  pursuing  the  study  of  the  law. 
In  his  eighteenth  year  he  composed  his  immortal 
poem  "  Thanatopsis,"  the  inspiration  of  which  was 
given  him  while  wandering  through  the  primeval 
forests  of  his  native  State.  After  being  admitted 
to  the  bar,  he  removed  to  Great  Barrington,  Mass. 
He  continued,  however,  his  literary  efforts,  contrib 
uting,  meanwhile,  to  the  North  American  Review, 
and  in  1825  removed  to  New  York  City,  becoming 
assistant  editor  of  the  New  York  Review  and  At  he - 
n<zum  Magazine.  Finally  he  became  the  editor-in- 
chief,  with  a  part  ownership,  of  the  New  York  Even 
ing  Post,  with  which  influential  newspaper  he  was  iden 
tified  until  his  death.  Although  a  bitter  Democrat, 
yet  upon  the  opening  of  the  Civil  War  he  laid  all 
partisanship  aside,  and  with  true  patriotism  warmly 
espoused  the  cause  of  the  United  States. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  219 

A  century  since,  in  flame  and  smoke, 
The  storm  of  battle  o'er  it  broke, 
And  ere  the  invader  turned  and  fled, 
These  pleasant  fields  were  strewn  with  dead. 

Stark,  quick  to  act  and  bold  to  dare, 
And  Warner's  mountain  band  were  there  ; 
And  Allen,  who  had  flung  the  pen 
Aside  to  lead  the  Berkshire  men. 

With  fiery  onset — blow  on  blow — 
They  rushed  upon  the  embattled  foe, 
And  swept  his  squadrons  from  the  vale, 
Like  leaves  before  the  autumn  gale. 

Oh,  never  may  the  purple  stain 
Of  combat  blot  these  fields  again, 
Nor  this  fair  valley  ever  cease 
To  wear  the  placid  smile  of  peace  ! 

Yet  here,  beside  that  battle-field, 
We  plight  the  vow  that,  ere  we  yield 
The  rights  for  which  our  fathers  bled, 
Our  blood  shall  steep  the  ground  we  tread. 

And  men  will  hold  the  memory  dear 
Of  those  who  fought  for  freedom  here, 
And  grand  the  heritage  they  won 
While  their  green  hill-sides  feel  the  sun. 


THE   BATTLE   OF    BENNINGTON. 

1777-1877. 
BY  MRS.  JULIA  FAY  WALDENBURG.* 

TWAS  the  eve  of  that  glorious  battle  morn, 

On  Vermont's  green  mountains,  in  splendor  born  ! 

*  Julia  Fay  Waldenburg,  daughter  of  George  Barren 


220  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Down  from  the  frowning  clouds,  the  rain 

In  torrents  fell  over  hill  and  plain  ; 

It  bent  the  trees  and  the  golden  grain, 

Beating  the  roof  and  the  window  pane, 

While  the  lightning  danced  on  the  mountains  far 

And  the  thunder  boomed  like  the  guns  of  war ! 

Crowning  a  hill  in  Bennington  town, 

Stood  a  low-browed  tavern,  broad  and  brown, 

With  a  novel  sign,  whose  like  I  ween 

In  book  of  heraldry  ne'er  was  seen  : 

'Twas  a  catamount,  swung  from  a  sapling  slight, 

Looking  alive,  as  its  teeth  gleamed  white  ! 

When  the  light  from  the  lonely  lantern  flared 

At  the  open  doorway,  its  wild  eyes  glared, 

And  it  seemed  through  the  gloom  to  keep  its  watch, 

The  Hessian  or  "Yorker"  foe  to  catch  ! 

Within  the  inn,  from  the  candles  tall, 

A  soft  light  shone  o'er  the  rooms  and  hall, 

And  lingered  in  many  a  silvery  line 

On  the  carven  wainscot  of  native  pine  ; 

On  the  musket,  and  pictures  upon  the  wall ; 

O'er  the  white-haired  landlord,  grave  and  tall ; 

Fay  and  Catherine  Strong ;  born  at  Albany,  N.  Y.,  of 
Revolutionary  stock;  a  great-granddaughter  of  Captain 
John  Strong,  of  Pittsfield,  Mass.,  on  the  maternal  side, 
and  great-granddaughter  of  Dr.  Jonas  Fay,  of  Benning 
ton,  Vt. ;  the  latter  was  a  son  of  Stephen  Fay,  Secretary, 
of  Council  of  Safety  and  surgeon  under  Ethan  Allen 
She  has  written  considerably  in  prose  and  verse — a 
volume  of  poems  published  by  Joel  Munsell  in  1878  — 
and  has  been  at  different  periods  foreign  correspondent 
of  the  Albany  Argus.  Married  in  1881  Mr.  William 
Waldenburg,  of  Brooklyn,  and  has  three  children. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  221 

On  the  stalwart  forms,  that  were  moving  there, 

With  speech  and  counsel,  oath  and  prayer. 

Here  the  Council  of  Safety  held  their  court, 

Sentenced  the  "  Tories"  with  session  short, 

And  framed  the  laws  with  a  loyal  zeal, 

Enforced  with  the  stamp  of  the  famed  "  Beech  seal,"* 

Vermont's  brave  sons  undaunted,  true 

As  the  emerald  hills  before  their  view  ! 

Allen  the  fearless,  rough,  unmoved  ; 

Warner  the  Ranger's  colonel  loved ; 

Robinson,  Chittenden,  Baker,  Fay, 

Dewey,  Fassett,  and  such  as  they, 

Whose  names  are  written  with  deathless  pen 

On  the  roll  of  heroes,  revered  by  men  ! 

On  this  August  night,  'mid  rain  and  gloom, 

There  was  gathered  within  the  council  room 

An  eager,  anxious  and  earnest  crowd, 

Who  with  nervous  gestures  and  voices  loud, 

With  solemn  purpose  and  steady  plan, 

Arranged  for  the  battle,  man  with  man, 

And  were  restless  for  morning's  light  to  break 

To  war  for  right  and  their  country's  sake. 

They  would  live  in  freedom  from  king  and  crown, 

Or  would  lay  their  lives  with  the  foeman  down  ; 

They  ask  no  congress  for  right  to  move, 

But  would  follow  their  leaders  brave,  through  love. 

Then  with  parting  word,  for  the  night  was  spent, 

To  their  homes  or  the  distant  camp  they  went. 

*  This  allusion  is  to  the  circumstance  that  those 
persons  who  were  not  considered  loyal  to  the  cause  of 
the  Colonies  were  often  waylaid  and  taken  into  the 
woods,  where  they  were  punished  by  a  flaying  on 
their  backs  with  "beech  rods' — called,  in  the  back 
woodsman's  parlance  of  the  day,  "  beech  seals'' — ED. 


222  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Bright  rose  the  morning's  sun  serene, 

No  lingerings  of  the  storm  were  seen. 

The  meadows  wore  a  brighter  green, 

The  swollen  river  shone  between, 

And  proudly  rose  the  mountains  far, 

On  nature's  face  no  frown  of  war. 

Then  lo  !  From  out  the  forests  still, 

With  stately  march  and  sturdy  will, 

The  gallant  columns  moved  apace, 

Toward  the  "  Heights"  looked  every  face ! 

They  came  from  forge,  from  shop,  from  farm ; 

The  "  Parson,"  with  his  gospel  arm 

Upraised,  was  eager  for  the  fight, 

Strong  in  his  faith  for  God  and  right. 

Ranger  and  volunteer,  as  one, 

Gathered  beneath  that  August  sun ; 

Ununiformed,  untried,  yet  brave, 

They  knew  their  power  to  fight  and  save  ! 

The  miry  road  they  wound  along, 
And  every  mile  they  grew  more  strong, 
'Till  soon  the  foe,  with  colors  bright, 
Stood  grouped  before  their  waiting  sight. 
Brave  Stark  commanding  called  aloud 
Unto  his  little  army,  proud  — 
"The  red-coats!  See! ! — We  win  this  fight, 
Else  Molly  Stark  this  very  night 
Must  sleep  a  widow  !"     Then  to  view 
The  foe's  defences  burst,  clear  through 
The  stubborn  outworks  on  they  prest 
From  northern  wing,  and  from  the  west ; 
While  from  the  British  breastworks  poured 
The  Hessian  fire.     The  cannon  roared  ; 
The  line  it  wavered,  comrades  fell, 
Still  pushed  they  bravely  on,  and  well, 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  223 

Heedless  of  hail  from  rattling  shot 

Or  blistered  hand  from  rifle  hot ; 

They  rushed  and  leaped  o'er  parapet, 

And  charged  with  butt  and  bayonet. 

Wearied  and  hungry,  wounded  sore, 

With  throbbing  brows  and  stained  with  gore, 

They  held  their  posts  'till  the  fight  was  done, 

The  foe  was  routed,  the  battle  won, 

While  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun  were  shed 

O'er  a  smoking  plain,  with  its  pallid  dead, 

And  the  twilight  shadows  reached  down  upon 

The  victory  field  of  Bennington  ! 

In  Paris  proud,  'neath  a  golden  dome, 

Where  wandering  pilgrims  ever  come  ; 

'Neath  massive  marble  and  sculptured  stone 

Is  gathered  the  dust  of  Napoleon  ! 

There's  a  legend  told  that  a  mighty  host, 

Shadowy,  ghostly,  to  vision  lost, 

Paces  ever  the  tomb,  before, 

In  tattered  garments  streaked  with  gore; 

Who,  pallid  and  wounded,  keep  watch  and  ward. 

'Tis  the  band  of  the  emperor's  famous  Guard  ! 

They  wait  his  rising  who  sleeps  below, 

To  follow  his  form  through  heat  or  snow, 

'Till  he  lead  to  glory  and  victory  ; 

And  they  wait  the  day  and  hour  to  be  ! 

No  shadowy,  ghostly  guard  have  we 

Pacing  before  dead  royalty  ; 

But  giant  forms  that  to-day  we  see 

Uprise  in  their  glorious  history ! 

Oh  ye  with  the  clear-eyed  sight  of  seers 

Who  glanced  o'er  the  wid'ning  space  of  years 

And  saw  a  form  whose  radiance  bright 

Flooded  the  western  world  with  light, 


224:  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Oh,  soldiers  brave  of  those  mighty  days, 

Whom  we  crown  with  a  century's  crown  of  bays, 

Keep  ye  your  vigils  over  our  land, 

O'er  valley  and  mountain,  river  and  strand  ! 

In  rain  or  sunshine,  calm  or  storm, 

Guard  ye  this  beauteous  living  form, 

Warm  with  the  youth  of  her  hundred  years, 

With  her  pulsing  heart  and  her  shining  tears, 

Oh,  watch  our  Land  in  her  strength  and  pride, 

Ye  loved  her  fondly  and  for  her  died  ! 

So  lead  her  upward,  thy  guard  ne'er  cease 

'Till  she  enter  the  endless  years  of  Peace  ! 


ODE  ON  THE  VETERANS  OF  THE  BATTLE 
OF  BENNINGTON. 

BY  MRS.  ANNA  C.  BOTTA.* 

OUR  patriot  sires  are  gone ; 
The  conqueror  Death  lays  low 

*  Mrs.  Anna  Charlotte  ;  (Lynch)  Botta,  authoress, 
born  in  Bennington,  Vt.,  in  1820.  Her  father  was  a 
native  of  Dublin,  Ireland,  who  at  the  age  of  sixteen 
joined  the  rebel  forces  under  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald. 
He  was  afterward  banished  to  the  United  States,  where 
he  married.  His  daughter  was  educated  in  Albany, 
N.  Y.,  and  at  an  early  age  began  writing  for  literary 
periodicals.  Removing  to  Providence,  R.  I.,  she  there 
edited  the  "  Rhode  Island  Book"  (Providence,  1841), 
containing  selections  from  the  authors  of  Rhode  Island. 
Soon  afterward  she  returned  to  New  York,  where  she 
has  since  resided,  and  in  1855  married  Professor  Botta. 
Among  her  many  works  is  a  "  Hand-book  of  Universal 
Literature"  (New  York,  1860),  containing  concise  ac- 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  225 

Those  veterans,  one  by  one, 

Who  braved  each  other  foe  ; 
Though  on  them  rests  Death's  sable  pall, 
Yet  o'er  their  deeds  no  shade  shall  fall. 

No,  ye  of  deathless  fame  ! 

Ye  shall  not  sleep  unsung, 
While  Freedom  hath  a  name, 

Or  gratitude  a  tongue. 
Yet  shall  your  names  and  deeds  sublime 
Shine  brighter  through  the  mists  of  time. 

Oh,  keep  your  armor  bright, 

Sons  of  those  mighty  dead, 
And  guard  ye  well  the  right 

For  which  such  blood  was  shed  ! 
Your  starry  flag  should  only  wave 
O'er  Freedom's  home  or  o'er  your  grave. 


PARSON  ALLEN'S  RIDE.* 

DELIVERED  AT  THE  CENTENNIAL  CELEBRATION  OF 
THE  BATTLE  OF  BENNINGTON,  AUGUST  16,  1877, 
BY  WALLACE  BRUCE.f 

The  "  Catamount  Tavern"J  is  lively  to-night ; 

The  "  boys"  of  Vermont  and  New  Hampshire  are 
here, 

counts  of  great  authors  of  all  ages  and  their  works, 
which  has  been  adopted  as  a  text-book  in  many  edu 
cational  institutions.  Mrs.  Botta's  style  is  musical, 
elegant,  and  finished,  and  her  sonnets  are  especially 
successful  ("  Appleton's  Biographical  Dictionary"). 

*  For  a  sketch  of  Parson  Allen,  see  Appendix 
No.  VIII. 

f  Wallace  Bruce,  lecturer,  born  in  Hillsdale,  N.  Y.r 


226  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

All  drawn  up  in  line  in  the  lingering  light 

To  greet  Parson  Allen  with  shout  and  with  cheer. 

Over  mountain  and  valley  from  Pittsfield  Green, 
Through  the  driving  rain  of  that  August  day, 

The  "  flock"  marched  on  with  martial  mien, 
And  the  Parson  rode  in  his  "  one  horse  shay." 

"  Three  cheers  for  old  Berkshire  !"  the  General  said, 
As  the  boys  of  New  England  drew  up  face  to  face, 

"  Baum  bids  us  a  dinner  to-morrow  to  spread, 
And  the  Parson  is  here  to  say  us  the  grace." 

u  The  lads  who  are  with  me  have  come  here  to  fight, 
And  we  know  of  no  grace,"  was  the  Parson's  reply, 

"  Save  the  name  of  Jehovah,  our  Country  and  right, 
Which  your  own  Ethan  Allen  pronounced  at  Fort 
Ti.M 

"  To-morrow,"  said  Stark,  "  there'll  be  fighting  to  do 
If  you  think  you  can  wait  for  the  morning  light, 

And,  Parson,  I'll  conquer  the  British  with  you, 
Or  my  Molly*  will  sleep  a  widow  at  night." 

November  loth,  1844.  He  graduated  from  Yale  in 
1867,  and  has  lectured  extensively  before  lyceums  and 
associations  on  literary  subjects,  especially  on  Shake 
speare,  Scott,  Burns,  Irving,  and  Bryant.  Among  his 
works  are  "  The  Land  of  Burns,"  "  Yosemite,"  "  The 
Hudson,"  and  u  From  the  Hudson  to  the  Yosemite." 
At  present  (1893)  he  holds  the  position  of  United 
States  Consul  to  Edinburgh,  Scotland. 

J  For  an  account  of  the  old  Catamount  Tavern,  see 
Appendix  No.  IX. 

*  Elizabeth  was  her  name,  but  General  Stark  used 
"  Molly"  as  a  word  of  endearment.  This  Mr.  Charles 
M.  Bliss  had  on  the  authority  of  a  granddaughter  of 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  227 

What  the  Parson  dreamed  in  that  Bennington  camp, 
Neither  Yankee  nor  Prophet  would  dare  to  guess  ; 

A  vision,  perhaps,  of  the  King  David  stamp, 

With  a  mixture  of  Cromwell  and  good  Queen  Bess. 

But  we  know  the  result  of  that  glorious  day, 
And  the  victory  won  ere  the  night  came  down, 

How  Warner  charged  in  the  bitter  fray, 
With  Rossiter  and  Hobart  and  old  John  Brown  ! 

And  how  in  a  lull  of  the  three  hours'  fight 

The  Parson  harangued  the  Tory  line, 
As  he  stood  on  a  stump,  with  his  musket  bright, 

And  sprinkled  his  text  with  the  powder  fine  : 

"  The  sword  of  the  Lord  is  our  battle-cry  !— 

A  refuge  sure  in  the  hour  of  need, 
And  Freedom  and  Faith  can  never  die, 

Is  article  first  of  the  Puritan  creed  !" 

u  Perhaps  the  occasion  was  rather  rash," 

He  remarked  to  his  comrades  after  the  rout, 

"  For  behind  a  bush  I  saw  a  flash, 

But  I  fired  that  way  and  put  it  out."* 

And  many  the  sayings,  eccentric  and  queer, 

Repeated  and  sung  through  the  whole  country  side, 

And  quoted  in  Berkshire  for  many  a  year, 
Of  the  Pittsfield  march  and  the  Parson's  ride. 

General  Stark  who  lived  in  the  house  with  him,  and 
who  was  eighteen  years  old  when  the  general  died. 
Another  granddaughter  explained  it  in  the  same  way 
to  Secretary  William  M.  Evarts  when  he  was  at  Ben 
nington  at  the  centennial  of  the  battle  in  1877. 
"  Oh,"  said  Evarts  in  reply,  "  he  called  her,  then,  Molly 
when  he  wished  to  mollify  her  !" 

*  The    firelock    which    Rev.   Thomas   Allen   used 


228  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Honor  to  Stark  and  his  resolute  men — 

To  the  Green  Mountain  Boys  all  honor  and  praise — 
While  with  shout  and  cheer  we  welcome  again, 

The  Parson  who  came  in  his  one  horse  chaise.* 


HYMN  ON   THE    BATTLE  OF    BENNING- 

TON. 

BY  MRS.  MARIE  MASON.f 

(On  the  occasion  of  the  centennial  of  the  battle  of  Bennington.} 

ONE  hundred  years  !  a  nation's  joys 
Resound  along  the  prospered  way 

That  Stark  and  his  Green  Mountain  Boys 
Made  ours  one  hundred  years  to-day. 

God  bless  the  standard  of  the  free  ! 

God  bless  this  peaceful,  happy  land ! 
Our  fathers'  God  !  we  lift  to  Thee 

Our  praise  for  gifts  on  every  hand. 

for  this  confessed  purpose  was  that  of  his  brother 
Joseph,  who  stood  near  him,  he  not  having  taken  one 
into  the  action.  It  is  still  preserved  in  Pittsfield  by 
the  descendants  of  Joseph. 

*  Among  the  re-enforcements  from  Berkshire  came 
a  clergyman  with  a  portion  of  his  flock — the  boys 
marching  on  foot  and  the  parson  driving  through  the 
muddy  roads  in  his  primitive  chaise  (u  History  of  Berk 
shire"). 

f  Mrs.  Mason,  the  wife  of  the  distinguished  musical 
composer  of  Boston,  Mass.,  was  herself  a  poetess  of 
no  mean  rank.  She  is  now  dead. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  229 

And  for  our  country's  honored  head  * 

Our  reverent  lips  ask  this  alone  ; 
That  Thou  wilt  guide  his  feet  to  tread 

In  footprints  of  our  Washington. 

Our  counsellors  with  wisdom  fill  ; 

Let  parties  die  ;  let  factions  cease  ; 
Let  all  men  seek  with  single  will 

Our  country's  unity  and  peace. 

Then  not  in  vain  the  patriot  blood 

Was  poured  upon  the  crimsoned  clay, 

When  side  by  side  our  fathers  stood 
One  hundred  years  ago  to-day. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  BENNINGTON,  AUGUST 

1 6,  1777. 

BY  REV.  THOMAS  P.  RODMAN. 

UP  through  a  cloudy  sky  the  sun 

Was  buffeting  his  way 
On  such  a  noon  as  ushers  in 

A  sultry  August  day. 
Hot  was  the  air — and  hotter  yet 

Men's  thought  within  them  grew ; 
They  Britons,  Hessians,  Tories,  saw, 

They  saw  their  homesteads  too  ! 

They  thought  of  all  their  country's  wrongs  ; 

They  thought  of  noble  lives 
Poured  out  in  battle  with  their  foes  ;— 

They  thought  upon  their  wives, 

*  President  Hayes  was  present  on  this  occasion. 


230  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Their  children  and  their  aged  sires, 

Their  firesides,  churches,  God  ! 
And  these  deep  thoughts  made  hallowed  ground 

Each  foot  of  soil  they  trod. 

Their  leader  was  a  veteran  man — 

A  man  of  earnest  will  ; — 
His  very  presence  was  a  host ; 

He'd  fought  at  Bunker's  Hill ! 
A  living  monument  he  stood 

Of  stirring  deeds  of  fame  ; 
Of  deeds  that  shed  a  fadeless  light, 

Of  his  own  deathless  name  ! 

Of  Charlestown's  flames,  of  Warren's  blood, 

His  presence  told  the  tale  ; 
It  made  each  patriot's  heart  beat  quick, 

Though  lip  and  cheek  grew  pale  ; 
It  spoke  of  Princeton,  Morristown  ; — 

Told  Trenton's  thrilling  story  ; 
It  lit  futurity  with  hope, 

And  on  the  past  shed  glory. 

Who  were  those  men  ?  their  leader,  who  ? 

Where  stood  they  on  that  morn  ? 
The  men  were  northern  yeomanry, 

Brave  men  as  e'er  were  born  ; 
Who,  in  the  reaper's  merry  row, 

Or  warrior's  rank  could  stand ; 
Right  worthy  such  a  noble  troop — 

John  Stark  led  on  the  band. 

Walloomsack*  wanders  by  the  spot 
Where  they  that  morning,  stood  ; 

*  For   an    able   article,   by   Hon.  S.  D.  Locke,  of 
Hoosic  Falls,  N.  Y.,  showing  that  the  battle  of  Ben- 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  231 

Then  rolled  the  war  cloud  o'er  the  stream, 
The  waves  were  tinged  with  blood  ; 

And  the  near  hills  that  dark  cloud  girt, 
And  fires  like  lightning  flashed  ; 

And  shrieks  and  groans,  like  howling  blasts, 
Rose  as  the  bayonets  clashed. 

The  night  before,  the  Yankee  host 

Came  gathering  from  afar, 
And  in  each  belted  bosom  glowed 

The  spirit  of  the  war  ! 
All  full  of  fight,  through  rainy  storm, 

Night  cloudy,  starless,  dark — 
They  came  and  gathered  as  they  came, 

Around  the  valiant  Stark ! 

There  was  a  Berkshire  parson* — he 

And  all  his  flock  were  there, 
And  like  true  churchmen  militant, 

The  arm  of  flesh  made  bare. 
Out  spoke  the  Dominie,  and  said: — 

"  For  battle  have  we  come, 
These  many  times  :  and  after  this, 

We  mean  to  stay  at  home, 

"  If  now  we  come  in  vain" — Said  Stark  : 

"  What !  would  you  go  to-night, 
To  battle  it  with  yonder  troops  ? 

God  send  us  morning  light, 
And  we  will  give  you  work  enough  ; 

Let  but  the  morning  come, 
And  if  ye  hear  no  voice  of  war, 

Go  back  and  stay  at  home." 

nington  should  be  called  the  battle  of  Walloomsack, 
see  National  Magazine  for  April,  1892. 
*  Parson  Allen.     See  poem  ante  by  Bruce. 


232  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

The  morning  came — there  stood  the  foe  ; — 

Stark  eyed  them  as  they  stood  ; 
Few  words  he  spoke — 'twas  not  a  time 

For  moralizing  mood  ; 
"  See  there,  the  enemy,  my  boys — 

Now,  strong  in  valor's  might, 
Beat  them,  or  Betty*  Stark  will  sleep 

In  widowhood  to-night !" 

Each  soldier  there  had  left  at  home, 

A  sweetheart,  wife  or  mother ; 
A  blooming  sister,  or  perchance, 

A  fair-haired,  blue-eyed  brother ; 
Each  from  a  fireside  came,  and  thoughts 

These  simple  words  awoke, 
That  nerved  up  every  warrior's  arm, 

And  guided  every  stroke. 

Fireside  and  woman — mighty  words  ! 

How  wond'rous  is  the  spell 
They  work  upon  the  manly  heart, 

Who  knoweth  not  full  well  ? 
And  then  the  women  of  this  land, 

That  never  land  hath  known 
A  truer,  nobler  hearted  race, 

Each  Yankee  boy  must  own. 

Brief  eloquence  was  Stark's — not  vain  ; 

Scarce  uttered  he  the  words, 
When  burst  the  musket's  rattling  peal ; 

Out  leaped  the  flashing  swords. 
And  when  brave  Stark  in  after  time 

Told  the  proud  tale  of  wonder, 
He  said  "  the  battle  din  was  one 

Continual  clap  of  thunder." 

*  General  Stark's  wife's  name  was  Elizabeth  Page. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  233 

Two  hours  they  strove,  when  victory  crowned 

The  valiant  Yankee  boys  ; 
Naught  but  the  memory  of  the  dead 

Bedimmed  their  glorious  joys  ! 
Aye — there's  the  rub  ;  the  hour  of  strife 

Though  follow  years  of  fame, 
Is  still  in  mournful  memory  linked 

With  some  death-hallowed  name. 

The  cypress  with  the  laurel  twines — 

The  Paean  sounds  a  knell — 
The  trophied  column  marks  the  spot 

Where  friends  and  brothers  fell ! 
Fame's  mantle,  a  funeral  pall 

Seems  to  the  grief-dimmed  eye ; 
For  ever  where  the  bravest  fall, 

The  best  beloved  die! 


REMNANT  OF  AN  OLD  CONTEMPORARY. 

(Song  about  Bennington.) 

To  take  the  stores  and  cattle 
That  we  had  gathered  then, 

Burgoyne  sent  a  detachment 
Of  fifteen  hundred  men. 

They  came  as  brave  men  ever  come, 

To  stand,  to  fight,  to  die; 
No  thought  of  fear  was  in  their  heart, 

No  quailing  in  the  eye; 
If  the  lip  faltered,  'twas  with  prayer, 

Amid  these  gathering  bands, 
For  the  sure  rifle  kept  its  poise 

In  strong,  untrembling  hands. 


POEMS  ON  THE  BATTLES  OF  SARATOGA. 

(SEPTEMBER  19  AND  OCTOBER  7,  1777.) 
A  STORY  OF  BEHMUS'  HEIGHTS. 

(OCTOBER  7,  1777.) 

(Written  by  E.  W.  B.  Canning,  a  trustee  of  the  Saratoga   Monument 
Association,  for  the  Springfield  Republican,  December  I3th,  1885.) 

"  PLEASE  tell  us,"  said  the  boys  who  stood, 

With  eyes  brimful  of  fun, 
Beside  their  grandsire — "how  you  fought 

Red-coats  at  Bennington  ; 
And  Col.  Cilley's  battle-tug 

Over  the  twelve-pound  gun." 

"You've  got  a  little  mixed,  my  boys, 

Twas  not  at  Bennington, 
But  Behmus'*  Heights,  where  Cilley  took 

And  christened  that  big  gun  ; 
And  I  was  there  and  helped  hurrah, 

When  the  brave  deed  was  done. 

"  You  see  we'd  been  a  fighting  hard 

Through  all  the  afternoon  ; 
And  'mongst  the  trees  a  thousand  balls 

Still  sung  their  deadly  tune  ; 
And  shot  and  shell  knocked  bark  and  boughs 

Over  our  whole  platoon. 

*  See   Appendix  No.  X.  for  different  spellings  of 
this  name. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  235 

"  We  drove  the  red-coats  rods  away, 

And  then  they  drove  us  back; 
Briton  and  Yankee  lay  in  scores 

Along  the  bloody  track  ; 
And  neither  side  would  bate  a  jot — 

'Twas  give  and  take  the  whack. 

"  So  back  and  forth  the  battle  swayed, 

As  ocean's  surges  sway ; 
And  round  that  gun  that  stood  between 

The  dead  lay  piled  that  day. 
Though  captured  oft,  we  had  no  time 
To  pull  the  thing  away. 

"  Four  times  'twas  ours,  and  four  times,  too, 

They  drove  us  from  our  prize, 
Which  made  the  sparks  of  anger  flash 

From  Cilley's  gleaming  eyes. 
*  The  next  time,  boys,  we'll  hold  it,  or 

Beside  it  die' — he  cries. 

"  A  rush,  a  shout,  a  volley's  crash, 

And  it  was  ours  again ; 
And  furious  as  a  horde  of  wolves, 

We  drove  them  down  the  glen. 
Then  on  the  war-dog  Cilley  sprang 

And  waved  his  sword  amain. 

"And  cried  aloud,  'To  Liberty 

I  dedicate  the  gun  ! ' 
Then  whirled  it  round  and  bade  its  charge 

Help  its  late  owners  run. 
We  shouted  it  to  camp,  and  thus 

Was  the  twelve-pounder  won." 


236  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

POEM  BY  PROFESSOR  ROBERT  T.  S. 
LOWELL* 

ON  THE  OCCASION  OF  THE  CENTENNIAL  OF  THE  BAT 
TLE  OF  BEMUS  HEIGHTS,  SEPTEMBER  19,  1777. 

Prelude. 

As  while  about  some  restful,  wide-shored  bay, 

All  hid  in  fog,  landward  and  seaward  lay, 

Came  far-heard  voices  forth,  from  men  unseen, 

Or  low  of  herd,  or  roll  of  slow-worked  oar, 

Heard  here  and  there,  throughout  that  floating  screen, 

Made  us  no  longer  lonely,  as  before ; 

Nay,  as  might  chance,  the  eyes,  long-straining,  wist 

Where  shapes  walked,  great  and  dim,  within  the  mist. 

So,  we  may  think,  with  former  men,  that  by 

This  life's  wide  shore  in  memory  are  nigh, 

But  hidden  deep  in  folding  mists  of  Past ; 

Still  may  the  stronger  eye,  the  finer  ear, 

Find,  through  the  floating  clouds  about  them  cast, 

The  men  that  did  their  work  and  left  it  here, 

The  past  that  lived  is  but  a  little  far 

Within  this  self-same  life  wherein  we  are. 

*  Robert  Traill  Spence  Lowell,  clergyman,  was  born 
in  Boston,  Mass.,  October  8th,  1816.  He  was  at 
Round  Hill  School,  Northampton,  Mass.,  in  1823-28, 
under  Joseph  G.  Copwell  and  George  Bancroft,  and 
graduated  from  Harvard  in  1833.  In  1873  he  became 
professor  of  the  Latin  language  and  literature  in 
Union  College,  Schenectady,  discharging  the  duties 
of  that  department  for  six  years.  He  was  quite  a  vo 
luminous  author,  and  was  a  frequent  contributor  in 
both  verse  and  prose  to  reviews,  magazines,  and 
literary  journals.  He  died  September  i2th,  1891. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  237 

BURGOYNE'S  MARCH. 

To  the  drums'  echoing  beat, 

And  thrilling  clarion's  cry — 

England's  red  banner  as  a  sheet 

Of  flame  against  the  sky — 

With  the  strong  tread  of  soldiers'  feet 

Burgoyne's  good  host  went  by, 

The  gleaming  bayonets  flashed  pride  in  every  eye. 

A  hundred  golden  summer  suns 

Have  filled  our  fields  with  June 

Whose  morn  and  noon  and  twilight  runs 

Each  to  its  end  too  soon, 

Since,  basking  in  the  wealth  of  day, 

Saint  John's  broad  fort  and  village  lay. 

While  through  the  streets,  and  from  the  fort, 

Company,  regiment,  brigade, 

Were  marched  as  for  a  last  parade, 

Crowding  the  sunny  port. 

The  town  all  thronged  the  beach  ; 

No  work  was  then,  for  far  or  near : 

No  work,  unless  to  see  or  hear, 

And  little  speech,  but  cheer  on  cheer ; 

Or,  here  and  there,  beyond  the  common  reach, 

Some  prayer,  some  sobbing  speech  ; 

But  shout  and  martial  strain 

Make  the  banks  ring  again, 

As  the  men  took  ship,  "to  sail  up  Lake  Champlain. 

The  general  had  stood  awhile 

Within  the  maple's  shade, 

With  quickening  eye  and  lofty  smile ; 

Since  the  dread  game  of  war  was  played 

Were  never  better  soldiers  made. 

To  conquer  for  the  world-conquering  Isle  ; 


238  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

To  win  back,  for  the  English  Crown, 

Before  which,  fate,  the  might  of  France  went  down, 

Fortress  and  farm  and  town, 

Along  the  lakes,  and  rich  Mohawk  Vale, 

To  the  old  solid  town  that  stands 

Embosomed  in  fair  lands, 

And  rich  with  many  a  peaceful  sail. 

Fort  William — Beaverwick — the  good  town,  Albany  ; 

While  Howe,  or  Clinton,  from  the  sea, 

Should  set  the  river-country  free 

From  a  base  rule  by  countryman  and  clown. 

Then  would  a  loyal  wall  keep  wide 

The  rebel  lands  that  lay  on  either  side, 

Till  more  calm  time  and  wiser  thought 

Should  bring  all  mad  revolt  to  naught ; 

And  the  great  realm  that  rounds  the  world  and  ever 

fronts  the  sun, 

Once  more,  from  shore  to  answering  shore, 
By  land,  by  sea,  one  realm  should  be  ; 
Unbroken,  as  it  was  of  yore, 
Throughout  all  earth  but  one. 

Strange,    one   might   think,    breathing  June's   happy 

breath, 

Hearing  glad  melodies  in  all  the  air, 
Seeing  the  red  and  gold  that  brightened  everywhere  ; 
Strange  that  all  these,  so  merry  and  so  fair, 
Should  deck  the  trade  of  death  ! 
As  well  the  clouds  of  sunset  heaped, 
All  tinged  with  red  and  gold, 
The  while  the  nightfall  cricket  cheeped, 
Might  into  sudden  storm  have  leaped, 
And  wreck  and  ruin  manifold, 
With  thunderbolt  of  fabled  Thor, 
As  this  become  death-dealing  war ! 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  239 

It  would  but  be  a  month's  parade ; 

The  rebel  fort  would  yield  at  call, 

To  earth  the  rebel  flag  would  fall ; 

The  king  would  be  obeyed. 

To  sweep,  with  summer  breeze,  the  lake, 

In  the  night  wind  a  bivouac  make, 

Beneath  the  starry  arch  ; 

To  scout,  in  underwood  and  brake, 

Would  be  a  pleasure-march  ! 

So,  to  an  English  eye,  our  country's  cause  would  fail 
(The  hurried  ending  of  a  tale 
Told  overnight), 

When  brave  Burgoyne  set  sail. 

Our  countrymen  that  season  lay 

As  men  that  wake  in  night  but  fear  the  day, 

The  leaguer-fires  of  Bunker  Hill 

Were  yet  scarce  trodden  out ;  and  still 

There  were  true  men,  whose  steadfast  will 

Set  all  it  had  at  stake ; 

Would  never  bow  to  might  or  ill ; 

Rather  their  country's  soil  would  fill 

With  clay  of  heroes'  make. 

St.  Clair  and  Schuyler  had  trod  back 

The  long  road  of  retreat ; 

The  foe  was  heard  upon  their   track, 

And,  foot  by  foot — as  waters  roll — 

So,  following  foot  by  foot,  he  stole 

Their  country  from  beneath  their  feet, 

Crown  Point,  Ticonderoga,  fell ; 

Fort  George,   Fort  Edward — need  we  tell 

Stout  Warner's  gloomy  overthrow  ? 

Or  the  great  loss  at  Skenesborough  ? 

Let  our  hearts  honor,  as  they  can, 
Schuyler,  the  gracious  gentleman. 


24:0  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

His  countrymen  called  back  their  trust 
He  waited  not  till  they  were  just, 
Took  lower  place,  and  felt  no  shame ; 
Still  gave  a  heart  and  hand,  the  same 
That  chose  this  cause  when  it  began, 
And,  in  his  honor,  give  its  share 
To  the  strong  patience  of  St.  Clair. 
Our  tide  of  strength  was  running  low  ; 
On  its  swift  ebb  was  borne  the  foe 
And,  as  men  speak,  God  willed  it  so. 

Not  always  will  the  tide  turn  out : 
Not  always  the  strong  wind  of  fate 
Shall  drive  from  off  the  harbor's  gate 
Those  who,  fast-anchored,  wait  and  wait 
Till  their  own  time  shall  come  about ; 
Yield  never  to  the  crime  of  doubt. 

So  everywhere  great  hearts  were  true, 
The  world  looked  dark ;  here — only  here — 
A  hand-breadth  of  the  sky  was  clear ; 
But  the  world's  work  was  here  to  do  ! 
Manhood  in  France  was  in  the  dust, 
The  prey  of  rank,  and  greed,  and  lust ; 
And  little  despots,  otherwheres, 
Laid  out  the  trembling  world  in  shares  ; 
And  England — England  of  the  free — 
Set  safe  by  God  amidst  the  sea, 
To  keep  the  light  of  liberty— 
Under  a  foreign  rule 
Had  learned  in  that  bad  school ; 
Forgotten  that,  where  law  has  sway, 
They  must  'make  law  who  law  obey. 
England  was  reading  all  her  story  back. 
To  our    true-hearted  sires    all  the  world's    sky 
looked  black, 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Save  one  clear  hand-breadth  in  the  west ; 
Darkness  and  clouds  held  all  the  rest. 

The  time  soon  comes  :  men  fill  our  camps; 

On  fortress-wall  the  sentry  tramps 

With  The  New  Flag  on  high, 

That  in  the  ages  down  through  time 

Should  shelter  all  weak  things  but  crime ; 

And  all  strong  wrongs  defy. 

Now  gain  comes  in  where  came  in  loss  ; 

Great  names  are  made,  or  take  new  gloss  ; 

As  fearless  Herkimer — so  wise 

To  see  beyond  the  young,  rash  eyes, 

Where  needless,  useless,  labor  lies ; 

But  fatherly  and  true, 

To  bear  their  rashness  through  ; 

So  Willett  won  at  Schuyler  fort, 

And  the  brave  leader  Gansevoort : 

Then,  with  Stark's  day  at  Bennington, 

The  first  great  prize  of  war  was  won, 

The  conquering  of  Burgoyne  begun. 

There  was  no  choosing  in  the  dark, 

God  made  the  general,  John  Stark— 

Our  tide  swelled  toward  high  water  mark. 

Three  months  of  summer  time  were  past 
Since,  with  a  gallant  host, 
'Mid  beat  of  drum  and  trumpet-blast, 
And  with  more  lofty  boast, 
Burgoyne  his  march  had  forward  cast ; 
Through  fort  and  field  his  easy  play 
Would  be  a  conqueror's  holiday- 
To  that  proud  time  his  thoughts  might  stray 
When  Gates's  army  barred  his  further  way. 

On  Bemis  Heights  our  fathers  stood, 
While  all  the  land  looked  on  : 


242  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Could  they  not  make  their  footing  good, 
Then  Albany  was  gone  ! 
Then  all  the  hearts  that  beat  for  right 
Would  draw  sad  presage  from  the  fight; 
Then  a  most  heavy  blow  would  smite 
The  heart  of  Washington  ! 

When  the  day  opened,  fair  and  still 

And  clarions,  with  alarum  shrill 

Drew  echoes  from  each  other's  hill, 

If  man  his  brother's  blood  must  spill, 

Let  not  God's  word,  "  Thou  shall  not  kill!' 

Bring  judgment  on  our  head  ! 

And  let  the  right  stand,  come  what  will, 

Though  we  go  to  the  dead ! 

They  met  the  foe. — We  will  not  say 
All  that  was  done,  of  deadly  fray ; 
How  forward,  now,  now  back  they  sway, 
Till  the  night  settled  late. 
But  by  the  first  strong  stand  here  made 
Burgoyne's  long  summer-march  was  stayed, 
And  many  an  anxious  one  took  breath, 
Who  watched  the  turn,  for  life  or  death, 
In  the  young  country's  fate. 

Here,  once  for  all,  his  march  was  crossed  ; 

He  tried  again,  again  he  lost ; 

And  ere  the  season,  growing  old, 

Knew  summer  out  of  date, 

And  hung  the  woods  with  red  and  gold, 

Burgoyne's  short  story  has  been  told  ; 

A  brave  heart,  but  his  cause  was  cold  ; 

God  willed  our  free  born  state. 

And  so  Burgoyne's  last  march  was  made  : 

Between  our  line  he  led  his  last  parade. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  243 

AFTER  BREATH. 

Now,  with  still  years  between,  when  through  we  gaze 
On  those  dim  dead — the  strong  of  earlier  days — 
Now  that  all  strife  is  still — the  great  meed  gained 
For  them  that  lived  or  died,  with  loyal  heart, 
In  alien  faith,  but  to  great  manhood  strained 
Unyielding  sinews,  honor  now  !     Our  part 
To  lay  ourselves,  as  very  sod  or  stone 
Of  trench,  when  called,  to  keep  our  land  our  own. 


ALFRED  B.  STREET'S  POEM* 

READ  BY  COLONEL  E.  HOWE  ON  THE  OCCASION  OF  THE 
CENTENNIAL  OF  THE  SURRENDER  OF  BURGOYNE. 

WHEN  fell  Rome's  fabric  in  the  chasm  it  wrought 
Dense  darkness  rushed  without  one  star  of  thought : 

*  Alfred  Billings  Street,  author  and  poet,  born  in 
Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y.,  December  i8th,  1811.  In  1839 
he  removed  to  Albany,  N.  Y.,  and  1843-44  edited 
the  Northern  Light,  and  from  1848  until  his  death 
he  was  State  Librarian.  Mr.  Street  began  at  an  early 
age  to  write  poetry  for  the  magazines,  and,  as  his 
biographer  in  "Appleton's  Cyclopedia"  has  justly  said, 
"  he  attained  a  respectable  rank  as  a  descriptive  poet." 
Some  of  his  productions  were  highly  praised  by  critics, 
and  several  of  his  poems  have  been  translated  into 
German.  Chief  among  his  poems  may  be  mentioned 
"Frontenac:  A  Metrical  Romance"  (London,  1849), 
"The  Burning  of  Schenectady"  (Albany,  1842),  and 
"  Drawings  and  Tintings"  (New  York,  1844).  One  of 
his  chief  prose  works  was  "  Woods  and  Waters  on  the 
Saranac  and  the  Racket,"  describing  a  trip  in  the  Adi- 


244  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Scowled  the  whole  midnight  heaven,  one  general  tomb, 
Where  formless  monsters  moved  in  Gothic  gloom. 
What  though  breathed  Music  in  Provengal  bowers, 
And  architecture  wreathed  its  fadeless  flowers  : 
The  loftiest  virtues  of  the  soul  lay  dead. 
Right,  swordless,  crouched  to  Wrong's  crowned  con 
quering  head. 

And  though  grand  Freedom's  essence  never  dies, 
It  drooped,  despairing,  under  despot  skies. 
If  aught  it  asked,  Darius-like  the  throne 
At  its  awed  look,  in  wrathful  lightnings  shone. 
Its  food  the  acorn  and  its  home  the  cell, 
Its  only  light  but  showed  its  manacle: 
Until  its  eye,  at  throned  Oppression's  foot, 
Saw  slavery's  towering  tree,  its  heart  the  root, 
Cast  Upas  shadow  o'er  one  common  grave, 
With  naught  but  its  own  soul  its  life  to  save. 
And  then  it  rose;  up  with  one  bound  it  sprang; 
Thunder  from  a  clear  sky  its  war-shout  rang  ;— 
Out  like  a  sunburst,  flashed  its  falchion  wide, 
And  gladdened  thousands  sought  its  warrior  side  ; 
As  the  mist  streaming  from  some  towering  crag, 
It  spread  the  blazon  of  its  glittering  flag. 

In  savage  gorges  which  the  vulture  swept, 
In  lonely  caverns  where  the  serpent  crept, 

rondack  Region  (New  York,  1860).  He  was  present  on 
the  occasion  of  the  dedication  of  the  Saratoga  Monu 
ment  in  1877,  on  which  occasion,  being  too  feeble 
himself,  his  poem  was  read  by  Colonel  Howe,  and  the 
writer  well  remembers  riding  with  him  in  the  same 
carriage  in  the  procession  on  that  occasion  and  having 
the  felicity  of  hearing  the  choice  gems  which  dropped 
from  his  mouth  at  that  time. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  215 

Close  where  the  tumbling  torrent  hurled  its  spray, 
And  shadowy  cedars  twine  a  twilight  day : 
Clutching  its  sword  and  battling  on  its  knee, 
Still  Freedom  fought ;  and  though  the  swelling  sea 
Of  cruel  Wrong  still  drove  it  struggling  higher 
It  could  not  quench  its  pure  celestial  fire  ; 
From  peak  to  peak  it  rose  until  the  height 
Showed  it  but  heaven  wherein  to  take  its  flight. 
Round  flew  its  glance,  it  saw  its  myriad  foes 
Following,  still  following,  rising  as  it  rose ; 
Following,  still  following !  was  no  refuge  nigh  ? 
Naught  on  the  earth,  and  only  in  the  sky  ? 
Round  flew  its  glance,  it  pierced  beyond  the  wave  ! 
Ha !  the  new  world  emerges  ! — shall  it  save  ? 
Hark,  a  wild  cry  !   It  is  the  eagle's  scream  ! 
See,  a  broad  light,  the  far  league-conquering  stream 
Linking  all  climates,  where  it  reaching  flows ; 
Its  head  the  snow-drift  and  its  foot  the  rose. 
Mountains  rise  there  that  know  no  tread  of  kings ; 
Blasts  that  waft  liberty  on  chainless  wings: 
Lakes  that  hold  skies,  the  swallow  tries  to  cross ; 
Prairies,  earth-oceans ;  woods  a  whirlwind's  toss 
Would  seem  a  puny  streak :  and  with  one  tongue 
All  thundered  "  Come  !"  the  welkin,  echoing,  rung 
l<  Come  !"  and  it  went ;  it  took  its  Mayflower  flight ; 
Fierce  raged  the  blast,  cold  billows  hurled  their  might : 
Winter  frowned  stern,  it  pierced  to  Freedom's  heart ; 
White  spread  the  strand  and  hunger  reared  its  dart ; 
Round  the  frail  hut  the  panther  prowled,  the  gloat 
Of  the  wolfs  eyeball  starred  the  chimney's  throat ; 
Though  winter  entered  in  its  heart,  it  braced 
With  strength  its  frame;  its  feet  the  forest  traced 
Despising  hardship  ;  by  the  torrent  rocked 
Its  bark  canoe ;  the  wild  tornado  shocked 


246  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Way  through  prostrate  woods,  it  grazing,  sent 
No  dread,  as  by  its  roof  it  whirling  went : 
From  choice  it  climbed  the  dizzy  cliff  to  glance 
O'er  its  realm's  magnificent  expanse. 

Oh,  glorious  Freedom  !  grandest,  brightest  gift 
Kind  heaven  has  given  our  souls  to  heavenward  lift  ! 
Oh,  glorious  Freedom  !  are  there  hearts  so  low 
That  its  live  flame  finds  there  no  answering  glow  ? 
It  soars  sublime  beyond  the  patriot's  love 
Stateliest  that  sways  save  thought  that  dwells  above. 
Slaves  love  their  homes,  a  patriot  glad  will  die 
For  native  land,  though  she  in  chains  may  lie ; 
Noblest  of  all  the  soul  that  loves  to  fall 
In  the  red  front  at  Freedom's  sacred  call ; 
His  heart  right's  shield,  he  braves  the  despot's  ban. 
Not  for  himself  to  perish,  but  for  man. 

So  when  crowned  Wrong  made  here,  his  first  advance, 
Flashed  from  our  fathers  wrath's  immediate  glance; 
Freedom  their  life,  the  sceptre  but  essayed 
Attempt,  to  send  their  swift  hand  to  their  blade. 
Their  serried  front  said  "  stay  !"  their  eyes  "  beware  ! 
Rouse  not  the  still  prone  panther  from  his  lair  !" 
But  vain  the  mandate,  vain  the  warning  spoke, 
The  king  strode  onward  and  the  land  awoke. 

Stately  the  sight  recording  History  shows 
When  the  red  walls  of  our  Republic  rose. 
Reared  in  deep  woods,  beneath  a  scarce-known  sky 
In  puny  strifes  that  hardly  claimed  the  eye; 
Of  lands  still  trembling  with  the  thundering  track 
Of  Saxe  and  Marlborough  ;  where  startling  back 
Russia's  black  eagle  had  the  Crescent  hurled 
Threatening  so  late  to  dominate  the  world. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  247 

Three  threatening  strands  were  woven  by  the  Crown- 
One  stretching  up  Champlain ;  one  reaching  down 
The  Mohawk  Valley,  whose  green  depths  retained 
Its  Tory  heart,  Fort  Stanwix,  scarce  restrained, 
And  one  up  Hudson's  flood — the  three  to  link 
Where  stood  Albania's  gables  by  its  brink. 

Glance  at  the  picture,  ere  we  spread  our  wing, 
Of  the  grand  battle  whose  famed  deeds  we  sing. 
Here  spreads  Champlain  with  mountain-skirted  shore — 
Caniadere  Guarentie — open  door 
Of  the  fierce  Iroquois  to  seek  their  foes 
In  regions  stretching  from  Canadian  snows. 
West,  in  a  purple  dream  of  misty  crag, 
The  Adirondacks  wavy  outlines  drag : 
East  the  Green  Mountains,  home  of  meadowy  brooks, 
Of  cross-road  hamlets,  sylvan  school-house  nooks, 
Church-covered  hills  and  lion-hearted  men, 
Taught  by  the  torrent  tumbling  down  the  glen, 
By  the  grand  tempests  sweeping  round  the  cliff, 
By  the  wild  waters,  tossing  by  their  skiff, 
Freedom,  till  Freedom  grew  their  very  life, 
And  slavery  with  all  earthly  curses  rife. 
Next  the  dark  Horican,  that  mountain-vein, 
Bright  islet-spangled  tassel  to  Champlain  ; 
The   Highlands,  souled  with   Washington  and  grand 
With  his  high  presence  watching  o'er  the  land  ; 
Thy  heights,  oh  Bemis !  green  with  woods,  yet  white 
With  flakes  of  tents,  zigzag  with  works  and  bright 
With  flags ;  while  in  perspective,  we  discern 
Grouped  round  grand  Washington,  with  features  stern 
In  patriot  care  and  doubt,  the  forms  of  Wayne, 
Putnam  and  Greene  and  all  the  shadowy  train 
Of  congress,  wrapt  spectators  from  afar 
Of  where  fierce  Battle  drove    his  flashing,    thunder 
ing  car. 


248  The  Burg&yne  Ballads. 

As  when  some  dream  tumultuous  fills  the  night 

With  changeful  scenes  and  plunges  past  the  sight 

In  hazy  shapes  looks  frowning,  till  at  last 

With  all  its  weird,  wild  phantasm  it  is  past, 

So  the  broad  picture  as  it  melts  away, 

And  once  more  in  our  hearts  peals  out  our  trumpet-lay. 

A  deep,  stern  sound  !  the  startling  signal-war  ! 

And  up  Champlain  Burgoyne's  great  squadron  bore. 

In  front  his  savage  ally's  bark  canoes 

Flashing  in  all  their  bravery  wild  of  hues ; 

Their  war  songs  sounding  and  their  paddles  timed  ; 

Next  the  bateaux,  their  rude,  square  shapes  sublimed 

With  pennon,  sword  and  bayonet,  casting  glow 

In  pencilled  pictures  on  the  plain  below; 

Last  the  grand  ships,  by  queenly  Mary  led, 

Where  shines  Burgoyne  in  pomp  of  gold  and  red, 

And  then  in  line  St.  George,  Inflexible, 

And  Radeau,  Thunderer,  dancing  on  the  swell 

The  glad  wind  made  ;  how  stately  shone  the  scene  ! 

June  in  the  forests,  each  side  smiling  green  ! 

O'er  her  dark  dome  the  chestnut's  tassels  stretched 

Like  golden  fingers  ;  pearl  that  seemed  as  fetched 

From  Winter's  heart  the  locust  mantled  o'er, 

While  its  rich,  creamy  mass  the  dogwood  bore, 

Like  a  white  helmet  with  its  plumes  atop. 

And  the  sweet  basswood  higher  appeared  adrop 

With  ivory  gems  :  the  hemlock  showed  its  edge 

Fringed  with  fresh  emerald  ;  even  the  sword-like  sedge 

Sharp  'mid  the  snowy  lily-goblets  set 

In  the  nook  shallows,  like  a  spangled  net 

Was  jewelled  with  brown  bloom.     By  curving  point 

Where  glittering  ripples  amber  sands  anoint 

With  foamy  silver ;  by  deep,  crescent  bays 

Sleeping  beneath  their  veil  of  drowsy  haze. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  249 

By  watery  coverts  shimmering  faint  in  film, 
Broad,  rounded  knolls,  one  white  and  rosy  realm 
Of  laurel  blossom,  with  the  Kalmia-urns 
Dotted  with  red,  the  fleet,  as  sentient,  turns 
The  winding  channel;  in  tall  towers  of  white 
The  stately  ships  absorb  the  emerald  light 
Glossing  the  lake ;  like  huge,  dark  claw-urged  crabs 
Ply  the  bateaux  their  poles ;  the  paddle-stabs 
Of  the  canoes  make  music  as  they  move, 
Gliding  along  unjarred,  as  in  its  groove 
The  car-wheel  glides  ;  the  panther  views  the  scene 
And  bears  her  cubs  within  the  thicket's  screen  ; 
The  wolf  lifts  sharpened  ear  and  forward  foot ; 
Waddles  the  bear  away  with  startled  hoot, 
As  some  sail  sends  a  sudden  flash  of  white 
In  the  cove's  greenery,  slow  essaying  flight 
The  loon  rears,  flapping,  its  checked,  grazing  wings, 
'Till  up  it  struggling  flies  and  downward  flings 
Its  Indian  whoop  ;  the  blue  bird's  sapphire  spark 
Kindles  the  shade ;  the  swarming  pigeon's  dark 
Deep  blue  breaks  out ;  the  robin's  warble  swells 
In  crumply  cadence  from  the  skirting  dells  : 
And  restless  rings  the  bobolink's  bubbly  note 
From  the  clear  bell  that  tinkles  in  his  throat. 
Thus  stately,  cheerily  move  the  thronging  fleet ! 
O'er  the  lake's  steel  the  blazing  sunbeams  beat ; 
But  now  a  blast  comes  blustering  from  a  gorge, 
The  whitecaps  dance ;  it  bends  the  tall  St.  George 
And  even  the  Thunderer  tosses  :  the  array 
Breaks  up ;  canoe,  bateau  grope  doubtful  way 
Through  the  dim  air ;  in  spectral  white  each  sail 
Glances  and  shivers  in  the  whistling  gale  ; 
All  the  green  paintings  of  point,  bank  and  tree 
Vanish  in  black  and  white,  and  all  but  see 


250  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

A  close  horizon  where  near  islands  lose 

Their  shapes  and  distant  ranks  of  forest  fuse 

Into  a  mass;  at  last  the  blast  flies  off, 

Shallows  stop  rattling,  and  the  hollow  cough 

Of  surges  into  caves  makes  gradual  cease 

'Till  on  the  squadron  glides,  once  more  in  sunny  peace. 

So  in  some  blue-gold  day  white  clouds  up-float 

In  shining  throng,  and  then  are  dashed  remote 

By  a  fierce  wind,  next  join  in  peace  again 

And  smoothly  winnow  o'er  the  heavenly  plain, 

Or  some  fleet  of  wild  fowl  on  the  lake 

Dipping  and  preening  quiet  journey  take, 

Till  the  sky  drops  an  eagle  circling  low 

For  the  straight  plunge,  wild  scattering  to  and  fro. 


When  lay  Champlain  in  eve's  gold-plated  glass, 
And  rich,  black  pictures  etched  the  glowing  grass, 
The  crews  debarked,  their  camp-fires  round  would  rear, 
And  hang  their  kettles  for  their  nightly  cheer ; 
Then  rose  the  tents,  like  mushrooms  to  the  moon, 
Swords  would  be  edged  and  muskets  polished  ;  soon 
Slumber  would  fan  its  wings,  and  in  the  bright, 
Soft,  delicate  peace  would  croon  the  summer  night. 

Then  the  gray  day-dawn  through  the  leaves  would  look, 
Red-coats  would  gleam  in  every  emerald  nook 
And  weapons  glitter  ;  as  the  mist  would  crawl 
From  the  smooth  lake  and  up  the  forest-wall, 
Sails  would  shine  out  and  spottings  of  canoe 
Moored  with  bateau  would  thicken  on  the  view ; 
Rings  of  dead  ashes,  fallen  trees  half  burned, 
Trunks  into  black  Egyptian  marble  turned, 
Where  curling  fires  had  scorched  the  streaky  moss, 
Roofs  of  dead  leaves  where  branches  stooped  across, 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  251 

And  soil  burned  black  and  smoking  still  would  show 
Where  through    the  night  had  shone   the    camp-fire 

glow  ; 

Limbs  drooping  down  and  logs  with  gaping  cuts 
Where  the  brigade  had  reared  their  bushy  huts ; 
A  deer's  head  on  a  stump,  a  bear  skin  cast 
On  trampled  ferns — the  red  man's  late  repast ; 
The  damp  drum's  beat  would  sound,  and  shrilly  fife, 
Dingle  and  aisle  would  flash  with  martial  life; 
Once  more  the  fleet  would  start  and  up  their  way 
Take  as  the  whole  scene  brightened  into  day. 

On  Lady  Mary's  deck  Burgoyne  would  stand, 
Drinking  the  sights  and  sounds  at  either  hand, 
Replete  with  beauty  to  his  poet  heart, 
Laughing  to  scorn  man's  paltry  works  of  art, 
The  grassy  vista  with  its  grazing  deer, 
The  lone  loon  soaring  on  its  shy  career, 
The  withered  pine  tree  with  its  fish-hawk  nest, 
The  eagle  eyrie  on  some  craggy  crest, 
The  rich  white  lilies  that  wild  shallow  told, 
Their  yellow  sisters  with  their  globes  of  gold 
At  the  stream's  mouth ;  the  ever  changeful  lake, 
Here  a  green  gleaming,  there  a  shadowy  rake 
Of  scudding  air-breath  ;  here  a  dazzling  flash 
Searing  the  eyeball ;  there  a  sudden  dash 
Of  white  from  some  swift  cloud;  a  streak  of  white 
The  wake  of  some  scared  duck  avoiding  sight. 


Changing  the  scene,  Burgoyne  his  camp  would  trace 
Round  the  Red  House  at  the  Great  Carrying  Place  ; 
There  when  the  sun  is  bright  the  sentry  sees 
Madame  Riedesel  dining  under  trees, 


252  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

As  the  chasseur  beholds  her  gliding  round 
Off  flies  his  bear-skin  helmet  to  the  ground. 
******* 

Meanwhile  the  tidings  of  Oriskany 
And  Bennington  careered,  and  glad  and  free 
Hope  spread  white  pinions;  throngs  to  Schuyler  pour 
Swelling  his  ranks,  all  abject  terror  o'er. 
Poor  Jennie's  mournful  doom  has  roused  an  ire 
Wrapping  the  region  with  consuming  fire. 
The  boy  strode  downward  in  his  rustic  sleeves, 
His  coarse  frock  fragrant  with  the  wheaten  sheaves ; 
The  old  blue  swallow-tailed  artillery  coat 
Trod  by  the  hunting  shirt  from  wilds  remote. 
******** 

But  on  !  the  morning  dawns  :  still  on  !  the  height 
Of  Saratoga  hails  the  pallid  light 
Of  closing  eve,  and  here  at  last  the  weighed 
And  weary  step  of  poor  Burgoyne  is  stayed. 
Gates  follows  after  from  the  jewelled  isles 
Of  Horican,  the  stately  rocky  piles 
Of  blue  Luzerne,  where  the  majestic  crags 
Of"  Potash  Kettles"  change  the  clouds  to  flags. 
Within  a  ball-swept  tent  Burgoyne  sits  now 
In  council  with  despair  upon  his  brow  ; 
Curtains  of  scowling  blackness  fold  him  round, 
Closed  is  the  net  and  he  is  firmly  bound. 
Turns  he  toward  Horican  ?*  the  foe  is  there  ! 

*  Horican  (Horicon),  a  name  never  an  Indian  name, 
but  merely,  as  Cooper  himself  says,  a  fiction,  and  which, 
therefore,  has  not  the  merit  even  of  historical  truth.  A 
tribe  once  lived  in  that  vicinity,  and  therefore  he  took 
the  liberty  of  calling  Lake  George  by  that  name.  This 
is  all  well  enough  in  novels,  but  so  far  as  historic  truth 
is  concerned  it  should  be  mentioned.  Cooper  should 


The  Burgvyne  Ball&ds.  253 

East,  Fellows'*  cannon-lightnings  scorch  the  air. 
West,  the  live  forest  but  his  coming  waits, 
And  in  his  rear  the  frowning  front  of  Gates. 

******** 

On  the  Fort  Hardy  green,f  this  dainty  day, 

The  conquered  hosts  of  England  march,  to  lay 

Their  weapons  down.     The  hour  has  struck,  and  now 

With  heavy  footstep  and  with  sullen  brow 

They  come,  but  with  no  patriot  eye  to  see, 

For  nobly  Gates  in  generous  sympathy 

Has  banished  all  within  their  tents.     They  come 

Yet  with  no  banner  spread,  no  beating  drum, 

Tramp,  tramp,  they  come  !  tramp,  tramping  rank   on 

rank ! 
Tramp,  tramp,   they  come  !  tramp,  tramping ;    hark, 

that  clank  ! 

Those  piling  arms!  clank,  clank  !  that  tolling  knell 
To  bowed  Burgoyne  !  what  bitter,  bitter  swell 

never  be  considered  an  authority  in  anything  pertain 
ing  to  historical  truth.  In  fact,  he  is  greatly  overrated. 

*  General  Fellows  having  got  in  the  rear  of  Bur 
goyne's  army,  between  the  latter  and  Fort  Edward — 
the  objective  point  of  Burgoyne's  retreat — nothing  was 
left  for  the  British  general  but  to  surrender. 

f  Fort  Hardy.  This  fort  was  erected  during  the 
administration  of  Governor  Hardy  of  the  province  of 
New  York.  It  was  built  by  the  colony  of  New  York 
to  ward  off  the  -incursions  of  the  French  and  the  Ind 
ians  in  their  employ.  It  never  was  a  great  strategic 
work,  though  for  political  purposes  it  was  in  the  New 
York  Assembly  called  a  "  great  work."  It  was  here 
that  Burgoyne's  army  "  stacked"  their  arms,  and  the 
outworks  of  which  are  still  (1893)  to  be  seen  by  the 
curious  tourist. 


254  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Of  his  proud  heart !  ah,  sad  Burgoyne !  what  death 
To  thy  high  hopes,  all  vanished  like  a  breath  ! 
******** 

Loudly  may  laureled  Saratoga  claim 

A  marble  tribute  to  her  splendid  fame  ! 

In  the  grand  chariot  which  her  war-steeds  drew 

She  first  placed  Freedom,  pointed  to  her  view 

The  glorious  goal.     Shall  pagan  Egypt  bid 

The  heavens  be  cloven  with  her  pyramid  ? 

Shall  Greece  shrine  Phidias  in  her  Parthenon 

To  live  till  fade  the  stars  and  dies  the  sun  ? 

Rome  with  her  mighty  Coliseum  whelm 

The  earth  with  awe  ? — a  peerless,  wondrous  realm — 

And  our  free  nation  meanly  shrink  to  write 

With  marble  finger  in  the  whole  world's  sight 

Grand  Saratoga's  glory  ?     Sound  aloud 

Song  thy  wide  trumpet !  let  the  heavens  be  bowed 

With  love  of  country's  wrathful  thunders,  till 

A  reverent  people  with  united  will 

Shall  bid  the  monument  arise  and  stand 

Freedom's  embodied  form  forever  in  the  land. 


GENERAL  J.  WATTS  DE  PEYSTER'S  ODE. 

READ  BY  REV.  D.  K.  VAN  DOREN,  ON  THE  OCCA 
SION  OF  THE  CENTENNIAL  CELEBRATION  OF  BUR- 
GOYNE'S  SURRENDER. 

THE  SURRENDER  OF  BURGOYNE,  "  SAR- 
ATOG,"  i;TH  OCTOBER,  1777. 

BROTHERS,  this  spot  is  holy  ! — Look  around  ! 

Before  us  flows  our  mem'ry's  sacred  river, 
Whose   banks  are   Freedom's   Shrines.      This    grassy 
mound, 

The  altar,  on  whose  height  the  Mighty  Giver 


Tfie  Burgoyne  Ballads.  255 

Gave  Independence  to  our  country  ;  when, 
Thanks  to  its  brave,  enduring,  patient  men, 
The  invading  host  was  brought  to  bay,  and  laid 
Beneath  "  Old  Glory's"  new-born  folds,  the  blade, 
The  brazen  thunder-throats,  the  pomp  of  war, 
And  England's  yoke,  broken  forever  more. 

Like  a  destroying  angel,  Burgoyne's  host 

Burst  through  Ticonderoga's  bulwarks,  hoary  ; 
And  flaming  wrecks,  wide  ruin  'long  its  coast, 

Renew'd  past  awful  scenes  of  Champlain's  story, 
When  France's  Lilies  dy'd  themselves  in  blood, 
Floated  to  triumph  on  Algonquin  flood- 
Made  William  Henry's  siege  a  tale  of  horror- 
Made  Abercrombie's  failure  land-wide  sorrow, 
Like  many  conflicts  though  right  bravely  fought— 
The  only  comfort  was  by  Schuyler  brought. 
Our  frontier  people  shrunk  before  the  scare  ;  * 
The  load  was  left  for  Schuyler  'lone  to  bear. 


*  The  scare  or  panic  which  succeeded  the  first  ap 
pearance  of  Burgoyne  was  of  the  same  character  with 
that  which  shook  the  whole  country  after  the  Bull  Run 
First,  July  2ist,  1861,  and  was  equally  causeless.  The 
people  recovered  from  it  much  quicker  in  1777  than 
in  1 86 1,  for  Oriskany  and  its  rich  harvest,  due  to 
Schuyler,  which  broke  the  spell,  was  fought  exactly 
one  month  to  a  day  after  the  fall  of  Ticonderoga, 
whereas  the  victory  won  by  General  Thomas,  the 
Schuyler  of  the  Slaveholders'  Rebellion,  at  Mill  Spring, 
which  taught  the  North  that,  under  an  honest  and 
able  leader,  theirs  were  the  best  men,  was  not  achieved 
until  January  iQth,  1862,  six  months  after  the  first 
battle  of  Bull  Run. 


256  The  Burgvyne  Ballads. 

And  how  he  bore  it,  now,  at  length,  we  know  ; 

How  steadfastly  he  damm'd  the  crimson  tide; 
Baffled  and  stopp'd  the  five-fold  stronger  foe;* 

To  timid  counsels  hero  strength  supplied. 
Burgoyne  victorious,  ere  he  left  Champlain, 
Startled  perceiv'd  his  brilliant  prospects  wane  ; 
Saw  in  the  Lion's  path  a  Nimrod  stand  ; 
Saw  all  his  mighty  projects  counterplann'd ; 
Ere  Burgoyne  reached  the  Hudson,  fast  empoignd 
In  Schuyler' s  grasp,  he  felt  he  was  "  Burgoyn'd." 

O  mighty  soul ! — by  envious  souls  decried, 

New  York's  great  son  in  giant  height  now  stands  ; 

Argus  to  watch,  Ulysses  to  decide, 

Gathering  resources  with  Briarean  hands, 

His  the  victorious  field  Harkheimer  made 

St.  Leger's  f  foil,  stopp'd  Johnson's  tiger  raid  ; 

*  Allen  says  Schuyler  did  not  have  over  1000  men 
at  Fort  Edward,  and  even  after  he  got  down  to  Half- 
Moon,  it  would  appear  that  the  majority  of  his  troops 
were  boys,  old  men,  negroes,  and  parti-colored.  If 
the  real  truth  could  be  reached,  there  is  very  little 
question  but  that  proof  exists  that  Burgoyne  had  over 
10,000  men,  Regulars,  Provincials  or  Loyalists,  Cana 
dians  and  Indians,  when  he  started  on  this  expedition. 
He  himself  admits  7863  men.  Schuyler  at  Fort  Edward, 
when  Burgoyne  was  within  twenty-one  miles  of  him, 
had  only  1500  miserably  furnished  troops.  Burgoyne 
surrendered,  valids  and  invalids,  5763  men  to  Gates, 
who  had,  besides  staff,  bateau-men,  artificers,  etc.,  a 
force  numbering  18,624,  according  to  official  returns. 
Governor  and  General  Clinton,  of  New  York,  estimated 
the  forces  of  General  Gates  at  between  23,000  and 
24,000  armed  men. 

f  For  a  sketch  and  account  of  General  St.  Leger 


The  Burgvyne  Ballads.  257 

Fort  Stanwix  sav'd,  the  Mohawk  valley  sav'd — 
Was  all  his  work,  who  coward  counsels  brav'd  ; 
Stak'd  honor,  fortune,  all,  upon  the  throw, 
So  by  the  cast  he  beat  his  country's  foe ; 
Oriskany  is  due  to  New  York's  son  ; 
Likewise  to  Schuyler's  brain  is  Bennington, 
Fought  on  our  own  State  soil,  on  Hoosic's  hill, 
Vict'ries  that  yet  the  nation's  pulses  thrill. 
At  length  Burgoyne,  the  haughty,  brought  to  bay 

At  Saratoga  knew  our  country's  might ; 
At  Freeman's  Farm  saw  triumph  fade  away ; 

Saw  Hope  itself  take  wings  on  Bemis  Height. 
Barr'd,  baffled,  beaten,  crippled,  short  of  food, 
In  vain  his  craft,  his  vet'ran  multitude, 
Caught  in  the  toils  through  which  he  could  not  break, 
Chain'd  like  a  victim  to  the  fatal  stake 
Just  where  we  stand — thanks  to  Sabaoth's  Lord 
Boasting  Burgoyne  gave  up  his  vet'ran  sword. 

Here  Albion's  battle  flag,  which,  round  the  world, 
Following  the  sun  at  morning-gun's  unfurl'd, 
Here,  where  we  stand,  the  crucial  flag  of  Mars 
Stoop'd,  in  surrender,  to  our  Stripes  and  Stars, 
Where  at  an  army's  head  was  first  display 'd 
Our  Starry  Flag  with  triumph's  halo  ray'd. 
A  century  since  Burgoyne  surrender'd  here!* 
British  dominion  its  Centennial  year 

and  his  dissolute  life,  see  Stone's  "Johnson's  Orderly 
Book,"  Appendix  (Munsell's  Sons). 

*The  New  Netherlands  were  not  definitely  ceded 
to  Great  Britain,  and  did  not  become  permanently 
New  York  until  February  Qth,  1674,  by  the  peace 
signed  at  Westminster.  The  city  of  New  Amsterdam. 
or  New  York  was  not  finally  yielded  up,  however,, 
until  November  loth,  1674. 


258  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Had  just  completed — which  its  Lion  tore 
From  Holland's  zone,  the  richest  gem  it  bore, — 
And  now  assembled  thus,  we  celebrate 
The  triumph  sure  which  seal'd  th'  invader's  fate ; 
Without  this  deed,  Freedom  had  not  been  ours ; 
Without  this  fact,  unbroken  Britain's  powers  ; 
Burgoyne  defeated,  France  became  our  friend, 
A  source  of  strength  on  which  we  could  depend, 
For  all  that  War's  strong  sinews  constitute — 
To  foster  Freedom's  tree — 'neath  ^ts  the  root. 

All  was  decided  here,  and  at  this  hour 

Our  sun  leap'd  up,  though  clouds  still  veil'd  its  power. 

From  Saratoga's  hills  we  date  the  birth, — 

Our  Nation's  birth  among  the  powers  of  earth. 

Not  back  to  '76  New  Yorkers  date : 

The  mighty  impulse  launched  our  "  Ship  of  State" 

'Twas  given  here — where  shines  our  rising  sun 

Excelsior !     These  hills  saw  victory  won. 

This  vale  the  cradle  where  the  colonies 

•Grew  into  States — despite  all  enemies, 

Yes,  on  this  spot — Thanks  to  our  Gracious  God 

Where  last  in  conscious  arrogance  it  trod, 

Defil'd  as  captives  Burgoyne's  conquered  horde ; 

Below*  their  general  yielded  up  his  sword 


*"  Below?  On  the  alluvial  flat,  a  few  feet  distant 
from  the  foundation  of  the  contemplated  Saratoga 
Monument  (according  to  W.  L.  Stone),  Burgoyne 
went  through  the  ceremony  of  resigning  his  sword  to 
Gates.  The  Duke  de  Rochefoucauld-Liancourt  (II., 
302),  who  visited  "  Saratog"  in  1795,  says  that  the 
ceremony  took  place  in  the  courtyard  of  Schuyler's 
ruined  homestead. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  259 

There  *  to  our  flag  bovv'd  England's,  battle-torn. 
Where  now  we  stand  f  th'  United  States  was  born  ! 

*  "  There"  About  a  hundred  rods  to  the  front  and 
eastward,  near  the  site  of  old  Fort  Hardy  and  present 
village  of  Schuylerville,  the  British  forces  laid  down 
their  arms. 

f  u  Here  where  we  stand"  The  Convention  of  Sara 
toga  traversed  all  the  British  plans,  lost  to  the  crown 
an  army  which  could  not  be  replaced,  won  for  the  Col 
onies  the  French  alliance,  without  whose  men,  material, 
and  money,  independence  was  still  an  impossibility. 
And  afterward  no  great  general  battle  was  fought,  nor 
did  the  English  achieve  a  single  success  which  led,  even 
comparatively  speaking,  to  important  results.  The 
sun  of  October  I7th,  1777,  witnessed  the  safe  delivery 
of  the  infant  United  States. 

The  writer  of  these  verses  has  endeavored  to  convey 
in  a  few  lines  facts  worthy  of  remembrance,  which 
thus  concisely  put  could  be  recalled  without  exertion, 
and  read  or  listened  to  without  fatigue.  The  facts 
thus  grouped  together  in  rhyme,  and  so  briefly  pre 
sented,  were  the  result,  however,  of  years  of  the  closest 
study.  The  author's  researches  had  already  borne 
fruit  in  a  series  of  publications.  The  most  prominent 
of  these  was  an  Annual  Address,  delivered  on  Janu 
ary  22d,  1877,  before  the  New  York  Historical 
Society,  and  entitled  "  Major-General  Schuyler  and 
the  Burgoyne  Campaign,  in  the  Summer  of  1777," 
June,  October,  1777;  "Justice  to  Schuyler,"  published 
in  the  New  York  Citizen,  Citizen  and  Round  Table, 
in  or  about  January,  1868  ;  also  u  Schuyler  and  Prac 
tical  Strategy,"  published  in  the  Army  and  Navy 
Journal,  January  27th,  1865,  Vol.  III.,  page  336. 
The  last  two  were  published  in  1876  as  a  mono- 


260  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

graph,  with  notes.  In  addition  to  these,  the  author, 
Major-General  J.  Watts  de  Peyster,  prepared  a  series 
of  nineteen  articles,  bearing  the  general  title  "  The 
Revolutionary  Year,  1777,"  which  came  out  in  the 
New  York  Evening  Mail  and  New  York  Mail.  The 
first  appeared  on  April  5th  and  the  nineteenth  on 
December  I3th,  1877.  The  series  treated  of  all 
the  prominent  events  of  "  the  real  beyond  contra 
diction,  Centennial  year."  They  filled  nearly  thirty 
columns  of  this  evening  daily.  Over  and  above 
this  immense  labor,  the  same  exponent  of  the  truth 
of  American  history  wrote  twelve  voluminous  arti 
cles  on  the  Burgoyne  campaign  for  the  New  York 
Daily  Times,  treating  in  detail  not  only  the  Bur 
goyne  campaign  proper,  but  all  the  military  op 
erations  bearing  upon  or  connected  with  the  same. 
These  occupied  at  least  thirty-six  columns  brevier  and 
agate  type  in  this  prominent  daily  journal.  Some  of 
them  were  pronounced  by  experts  to  be  exhaustive  of 
facts  and  authorities.  Nor  was  this  the  entirety  of 
his  labors.  He  furnished  a  monograph  and  poem  on 
the  battle  of  Oriskany,  with  notes,  to  Stone's  New 
York  Military  Gazette,  of  November  i5th,  1860, 
and  a  detailed  article  on  the  same  subject  to  the  New 
York  Historical  Magazine  (new  series,  Vol.  V.,  No. 
i),  for  January,  1869.  The  poem  which  first  ap 
peared  in  the  Military  Gazette  was  considered  of 
sufficient  merit  to  be  translated  into  German  and  re- 
published  in  Hon.  Friedrich  Kapp's  "  Geschichte  der 
deutchen  Anwanderung  in  Amerika,"  Vol.  I.,  "  Ge 
schichte  der  Deutschen  in  Staate  New  York  bis  zitm 
Anfange  des  neunzehnten  Jahrhundert"  New  York, 
1867,  pages  389-90.  It  was  again  reproduced  in 
the  Staats  Zeitung  of  August  6th,  1877.  His 
second  poem  on  Oriskany,  written  for  the  occasion, 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  261 

was  read  at  the  Centennial  Anniversary  of  this  decisive 
battle,  noteworthy  in  connection  with  the  battles  and 
capitulation  of  Saratoga,  because  it  did  decide  the 
fate  of  the  Burgoyne  campaign.  This  received  the 
most  flattering  notice  from  the  press  throughout  the 
State,  as  well  as  elsewhere. 

The  motive  for  all  this  work  was  patriotism  in  the 
sense  in  which  it  was  applied  in  olden  times,  when  a 
man's  sympathies  were  not  expected  to  embrace  a 
continent :  Love  of  New  York,  the  Empire  State, 
in  the  truest  sense  of  such  an  appellation,  imperial 
even  in  its  errors.  With  gradually  developing  thought, 
even  New  England  has  attained  the  majesty  of  justice 
to  Schuyler.  (See  Stevens's  "  Burgoyne  Campaign," 
page  27.) 

Alas!  this  justice  comes  just  one  century  too  late. 
New  England's  envy  and  injustice,  in  1777,  deprived 
Schuyler  of  his  glory  in  the  very  hour  of  triumph- 
New    England,  for  which  Washington    had    so  little 
good  and  so  much  bitter  both  to  say  and  to  write. 

All  the  conflicts  of  the  Burgoyne  campaign  were 
fought  on  New  York  soil,  and  all  the  great  factors  in 
the  triumph,  except  the  mere  nominal  chief  actor, 
were  born  within  the  limits  of  the  original  colony  of 
the  New  Netherlands,  afterward  New  York.  Chil 
dren  of  its  soil  fought  out  the  question  on  the  Upper 
Hudson  (underlying  Fort  Anne),  at  Oriskany  and  in 
the  passes  of  the  Highlands.  Namesake  and  kins 
man,  blood  relation  and  connection,  neighbor  and  de 
pendent,  met  breast  to  breast  to  solve  the  great  prob 
lem  whether  their  country  should  be  happier  under  a 
constitutional  monarchy  or  a  constitution  and  con 
gress. 

They  did  not  decide  it  then,  and  it    is  an  enigma 
which  still  remains  unsolved.    Events  are  tending  fast 


262  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

to  its  solution,  but  the  tangled  skein  is  certainly  not 
yet  entirely  unravelled. 

What  scathing  words  Washington  hurls  around 
him  at  various  members  of  the  old  original  Thirteen  ! 
He  is  unsparing.  New  England  does  not  escape,  nor 
Pennsylvania,  nor  even  his  own  native  Virginia. 

"  In  1777"  (says  Theodore  Parker  in  his  "  Historic 
Americans"),  "when  the  British  held  Philadelphia,  and 
Washington  went  into  winter  quarters  at  Valley 
Forge,  only  a  day's  march  off,  at  a  time  of  the  greatest 
peril,  the  .  .  .  State  of  Pennsylvania  had  but  twelve 
hundred  militia  in  the  field  to  defend  their  own  fire 
sides."  "  Pennsylvania  .  .  .  did  little  for  indepen 
dence." 

These  are  quotations.  If  the  charges  are  unfounded, 
let  the  author  justify  them.  One  fact  is  patent,  just 
as  in  1862  and  1863,  Pennsylvania  had  to  call  in  1777 
upon  her  sister  States  to  protect  her  homesteads. 

Meanwhile,  what  is  the  record  of  the  Rev.  William 
Gordon  (in,  399),  in  regard  to  New  York,  which, 
"  though  consuming  at  both  ends  and  bleeding  at 
every  pore,  had  her  complement  of  Continental  troops 
(Congress  soldiers  Regulars),  in  the  field,  beside  having 
raised  in  the  month  of  May  [1780]  eight  hundred 
new  levies  to  guard  the  frontiers?" 

In  1780,  when  New  York  was  devastated  (at  its 
heart)  by  her  own  offspring,  while  thus  suffering  and 
still  exerting  itself,  several  of  her  sister  States  were 
in  full  and  peaceable  possession  of  their  territories, 
seemingly  slept  in  security,  and  had  not  a  third  of 
their  quota  in  the  field.  "  Yet  (at  this  very  period),  in 
1779-80,  General  Arnold,  the  traitor,  with  less  than 
two  thousand  men  (British  Regulars  and  Loyalists), 
ravaged  the  whole  State  of  Virginia  for  two  years. 
Jefferson  did  nothing  against  him."  (Parker's  "  His- 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  263 

toric  Americans,"  Washington,  144.)  Nor  was  the 
Father  of  his  Country  less  severe  on  the  original  co 
lonial  Virginia  militia  or  provincial  troops.  (Ibid., 
86-88.) 

This  theme  might  be  pursued  with  healthful  in- 
structiveness  through  pages  for  the  edification  not 
merely  of  the  men  of  the  day,  but  of  posterity,  to  show 
that  not  only  were  the  shores  of  the  noble  river 
which  bears  his  name  "  the  loveliest  country  (ac 
cording  to  Hudson)  on  which  the  foot  of  man  was 
ever  set,"  but  the  men  who  were  bred  and  born  along 
this  majestic  stream  and  its  affluents  were  worthy  of 
such  a  partial  soil. 

The  first  North  American  Congress  met  at  New 
York  in  1690  (Lamb,  i,  379).  The  second  (by  many 
styled  the  first)  celebrated  Congress,  consisting  of  dele 
gates  from  all  the  Colonies,  convened  at  Albany  in 

I754- 

The  fate  of  the  Thirteen  Colonies  was  decided  in  the 
State  of  New  York  one  hundred  years  ago  ;  and  the 
first  President  of  the  United  States  was  inaugurated 
in  the  city  of  New  York  eighty-eight  years  ago  in 
Federal  Hall. 

So  much  space  has  been  devoted  to  this  illustration, 
because  if  General  de  Peyster's  part  in  the  exercises 
on  October  I7th,  1877,  at  Schuylerville  was  com 
paratively  small,  his  "chivalric"  labors  to  place  the 
State  of  New  York  upon  the  grand  elevation  its  ma 
jesty  deserves  have  not  been  exceeded  by  any  "  son 
of  the  soil"  since  first  it  had  a  literature  and  records. 


264  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

THE    FIELD    OF  THE  GROUNDED  ARMS, 
SARATOGA. 

WRITTEN  IN  1831  BY  FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK.* 

(Read  by  General  James  Grant  Wilson,  HallecK  s  biographer^) 

STRANGERS  !  your  eyes  are  on  that  valley  fixed 
Intently,  as  we  gaze  on  vacancy, 

When  the  mind's  wings  o'erspread 

The  spirit  world  of  dreams. 

*  Fitz-Greene  Halleck,  poet,  born  in  Guilford, 
Conn.,  July  8th,  1790;  died  there  November  iQth, 
1867.  In  May,  181 1,  he  left  his  native  town  to  seek 
after  fame  and  fortune  in  New  York,  and  in  June 
of  the  same  year  he  entered  the  counting-room  of 
Jacob  Barker,  in  whose  service  he  remained  for 
twenty  years.  He  early  became  a  poet,  and  it  was  on 
the  occasion  of  the  death  of  his  intimate  friend, 
Joseph  Rodman  Drake,  that  he  wrote  those  exquis 
itely  touching  lines  beginning 

"  Green  be  the  turf  above  thee." 

In  1819  these  two  formed  a  literary  partnership,  and 
afterward  produced  the  humorous  series  of  the 
"  Croaker  Papers,"  published  in  the  New  York  Even 
ing  Post,  then  edited  by  their  friend,  Bryant.  He 
was  the  author  of  numerous  poetical  works  and  short 
pieces — among  them  "  Fanny"  and  "  Marco  Boz- 
zaris" — and  was  justly  held  in  high  regard  both  as  a 
poet  and  as  a  man.  Nor  can  I  allow  this  opportunity 
to  pass  without  here  paying  a  personal  tribute  to  the 
subject  of  this  sketch.  When  a  young  man  and  first 
embarking  on  the  untried  sea  of  authorship,  he  gave  me 
much  encouragement,  and  it  is  due  to  him  in  a  meas 
ure  that  I  was  emboldened  to  continue  that  voyage. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  265 

True,  'tis  a  scene  of  loveliness — the  bright 
Green  dwelling  of  the  summer's  first-born  hours, 

Whose  wakened  leaf  and  bud 

Are  welcoming  the  morn. 

And  morn  returns  the  welcome,  sun  and  cloud 
Smile  on  the  green  earth  from  their  home  in  heaven, 

Even  as  a  mother  smiles 

Above  her  cradled  boy, 

And   wreathe   their  light   and   shade  o'er  plain  and 

mountain, 
O'er  sleepless  seas  of  grass,  whose  waves  are  flowers, 

The  river's  golden  shores, 

The  forest  of  dark  pines. 

The  song  of  the  wild  bird  is  on  the  wind, 
The  hum  of  the  wild  bee,  the  music  wild, 

Of  waves  upon  the  bank, 

Of  leaves  upon  the  bough. 

But  all  is  song  and  beauty  in  the  land, 
Beneath  her  skies  of  June  ;  then  journey  on, 

A  thousand  scenes  like  this 

Will  greet  you  ere  the  eve. 

Ye  linger  yet — ye  see  not,  hear  not  now, 
The  sunny  smile,  the  music  of  to-day, 

Your  thoughts  are  wandering  up, 

Far  up  the  stream  of  time. 

And  boyhood's  lore  and  fireside  listened  tales 
Are  rushing  on  your  memories,  as  ye  breathe 

That  valley's  storied  name, 

FIELD  OF  THE  GROUNDED  ARMS. 

Strangers  no  more,  a  kindred  "  pride  of  place," 
Pride  in  the  gift  of  country,  and  of  name, 

Speaks  in  your  eye  and  step — 

Ye  tread  your  native  land. 


266  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

And  your  high  thoughts  are  on  her  glory's  day, 
The  solemn  Sabbath  of  the  week  of  battle, 

Whose  tempest  bowed  to  earth 

Her  foeman's  banner  here. 

The  forest  leaves  lay  scattered  cold  and  dead, 
Upon  the  withered  grass  that  autumn  morn, 

When,  with  as  widowed  hearts 

And  hopes  as  dead  and  cold, 

A  gallant  army  formed  their  last  array 
Upon  that  field,  in  silence  and  deep  gloom, 

And  at  their  conqueror's  feet 

Laid  their  war-weapons  down. 

Sullen  and  stern,  disarmed  but  not  dishonored ; 
Brave  men,  but  brave  in  vain,  they  yielded  there 

The  soldier's  trial-task 

Is  not  alone  "  to  die." 

Honor  to  chivalry  !  the  conqueror's  breath 
Stains  not  the  ermine  of  his  foeman's  fame, 

Nor  mocks  his  captive  doom— 

The  bitterest  cup  of  war. 

But  be  that  bitterest  cup  the  doom  of  all 
Whose  swords  are  lightning-flashes  in  the  cloud 

Of  the  invader's  wrath, 

Threatening  a  gallant  land  ! 

His  armies'  trumpet-tones  wake  not  alone 
Her  slumbering  echoes;  from  a  thousand  hills 

Her  answering  voices  shout, 

And  her  bells  ring  to  arms  ! 

The  danger  hovers  o'er  the  invader's  march, 
On  raven  wings  hushing  the  song  of  fame, 

And  glory's  hues  of  beauty 

Fade  from  the  cheek  of  death. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  267 

A  foe  is  heard  in  every  rustling  leaf, 
A  fortress  seen  in  every  rock  and  tree, 

The  eagle  eye  of  art 

Is  dim  and  powerless  then, 

And  war  becomes  the  people's  joy,  the  drum 
Man's  merriest  music,  and  the  field  of  death 

His  couch  of  happy  dreams, 

After  life's  harvest-home. 

He  battles  heart  and  arm,  his  own  blue  sky 
Above  him,  and  his  own  green  land  around, 

Land  of  his  father's  grave, 

His  blessing  and  his  prayers  ; 

Land  where  he  learned  to  lisp  a  mother's  name, 
The  first  beloved  in  life,  the  last  forgot, 

Land  of  his  frolic  youth, 

Land  of  his  bridal  eve — 

Land  of  his  children— vain  your  columned  strength, 
Invaders!  vain  your  battles'  steel  and  fire  ! 

Choose  ye  the  morrow's  doom— 

A  prison  or  a  grave. 

And  such  were  Saratoga's  victors — such 
The  Yeoman-Brave,  whose  deeds  and  death  have 
given 

A  glory  to  her  skies, 

A  music  to  her  name. 

In  honorable  life  her  fields  they  trod, 
In  honorable  death  they  sleep  below ; 

Their  souls'  proud  feelings  here 

Their  noblest  monuments. 


268  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

SARATOGA. 

BY  CHARLES  H.  CRANDALL.* 

(  Written  for  the  dedication  of  the   battle  monument  at  Schuylerville,  IV.  F.) 

HISTORIC  Hudson  !     Haste  not  by  to-day  ! 
More  gently  let  thy  waters  take  their  way 

*  Crandall,  Charles  Henry,  born  June  iQth,  1858, 
in  the  town  of  Easton,  near  the  village  of  Greenwich, 
Washington  County,  N.  Y.  His  father  was  Henry 
Sargent  Crandall,  who  spent  many  years  in  public 
service  as  Assistant  Assessor  of  Internal  Revenue,  and 
in  several  positions  in  the  New  York  Post  Office  and 
Custom  House.  The  Crandalls  trace  back  to  a  fol 
lower  of  Roger  Williams,  Rev.  John  Crandall,  who 
founded  the  town  of  Westerly,  R.  I.,  about  1635.  On 
his  maternal  side  the  poet  sprang  from  Mills,  Car- 
michael,  Canfield,  and  Waters  families.  His  great 
grandfather,  Jeremiah  Newbury,  fought  throughout  the 
whole  Revolution,  and  is  buried  at  Greenwich,  N.  Y. 

Our  subject  was  educated  at  common  schools  and  the 
Greenwich  Academy  until  he  was  fourteen  years  old, 
when  he  had  to  take  up  the  problem  of  working  for  a 
living,  first  on  the  ancestral  acres  and  afterward  in 
mercantile  life  in  New  York.  Tired  of  the  latter,  he 
went  on  the  staff  of  the  New  York  Tribune  in  March, 
1880,  and  has  written  for  it  since  more  or  less,  con 
tributing  correspondence,  special  and  editorial  matter. 
His  vein  of  poesy  first  flowed  through  the  columns  of 
the  Tribime,  opening  with  a  graceful  sonnet,  and  con 
tinuing  with  some  scores  of  poems — grave,  gay,  patri 
otic  or  elegiac.  Afterward  his  verse  found  acceptance 
with  the  Century,  Harper  s  Monthly,  the  Atlantic, 
Cosmopolitan,  Lippincott' s,  etc.  Among  many  maga 
zine  articles  he  has  written  a  full  treatment  of  the  Bur- 


The  Eurgoyne  Ballads.  269 

As  on  thy  banks  we  dedicate 

This  shaft  unto  the  dead,  the  great, 
Whose   memory,  like  thy  stream,  a  shining  story, 
Shall  broaden  to  a  boundless  sea  of  glory. 

The  dwellers  in  Manhattan's  crowded  mart 
May  here  see  Nature  play  her  silent  part. 

The  stream  that  brings  them  wealth 

Here  steps  with  bashful  stealth, 
Soft,  as  in  moccasins  an  Indian  maiden, 
Its  breast  with  trees,  like  tresses,  overladen. 


goyne  campaign,  published  with  illustrations  in  the 
American  Magazine.  His  interest  in  the  Burgoyne  bat 
tle  monument  may  be  partially  due  to  the  fact  that  his 
birthplace,  two  miles  away,  is  in  view  from  its  top.  In 
1890  Mr.  Crandall  published  through  Houghton, 
Mifflin&  Co.  a  collection  of  "Representative  Sonnets" 
by  American  poets,  with  an  exhaustive  study  and  his 
tory  of  the  sonnet  in  all  literatures  since  its  birth  in 
the  thirteenth  century.  The  work  was  at  once  cordially 
greeted,  as  a  credit  to  American  literature,  by  such 
critics  as  Stedman,  Gilder,  Horace  E.  Scudder,  the 
Evening  Post>  Critic,  etc. 

In  1892  Mr.  Crandall  was  requested  to  write  a  poem 
for  the  two  hundred  and  fiftieth  anniversary  of  the 
founding  of  Stamford,  Conn.,  near  which  city  he  now 
resides,  mingling  farm  life  with  literary  pursuits.  He 
has  been  twice  married :  to  Miss  Kate  V.  Ferguson 
(deceased)  and  to  Miss  Mary  V.  Davenport,  of  the 
family  so  closely  connected  with  the  history  of  Con 
necticut.  He  has  three  sons — Arthur,  Robert  and 
Roland — and  finds  even  greater  pleasure  in  his  sons 
than  his  sonnets. 


270  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

As  now  for  many  a  path  in  life  you  meet, 
The  hills  in  their  immortal  verdure  greet, 

Come  with  me  in  my  boat  of  rhyme, 

Come  and  ascend  the  stream  of  time, 
Back  when  the  nation  was  a  century  newer 
And  held  true  heroes,  though  her  sons  were  fewer. 

Quiet  for  many  a  year  has  here  been  found — 
The  wild  bird  feared  no  martial  sight  nor  sound. 

Under  the  peaceful  fields,  well-kept, 

The  ashes  of  the  soldier  slept, 
With  summer's  guard  of  tasselled  corn  around, 
And  winter's  snow-shroud  hallowing  the  ground. 

On  yonder  plain,  where  England's  grenadiers 
Laid  down  the  arms  they  loved,  with  bitter  tears, 

The  armies  of  the  grass  and  grain 

Have  struggled  o'er  and  o'er  again, 
In  changing  regiments  of  green  and  yellow, 
Through  lusty  June,  through  August  ripe  and  mellow. 

Honor  the  past  !     Already  has  there  flown 

From  Saratoga  and  from  Horicon 

All  but  their  names — whose  gentle  sounds 
Still  linger  round  the  burial  mounds— 

Of  that  dark  race,  which,  ever  westward  flying, 

Now,  like  a  sunset's  light,  is  slowly  dying. 

The  modern  spirit  would  itself  demean 

Did  we  not  flock,  to-day,  to  such  a  scene  ; 
For  from  the  nation's  rugged  past, 
The  rude  days  when  her  fate  was  cast, 

Has  flowed  the  stream  that  makes  all  men   draw  near 
her, 

The  Freedom  that  has  made  the  world  revere  her. 

Here  fell  the  blow  that  made  Oppression  reel, 
And  set  on  Freedom's  cause  its  brightest  seal. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  271 

Honor  to  Schuyler,  Morgan,  Gates, 

The  victors  over  threatening  fates, 
And  praise  for  him  whose  niche  has  but  a  name, 
Too  valiant  to  forget,  to  base  for  fame  ! 

Honor  to  every  nameless,  fallen  one  ! 
Honor  them  all,  each  one  the  country's  son  ! 

Stone  for  their  fitting  monument 

Nature  to  Art  has  kindly  lent, 
And  every  block  that  lifts  this  tapering  spire 
Is  sacred  as  if  touched  with  holy  fire. 

First  on  the  soil  the  flag  we  love  to  name 
Flew  in  the  wind,  a  never-dying  flame  ! 

Giving  a  heart-beat  to  the  land, 

Binding  it  with  a  silken  band — 
An  amulet  where'er  its  name  is  spoken— 
'Gainst  which  no  sword  shall  ever  fall  unbroken  ! 

And  when  this  ceremonial  pomp  shall  pass, 

And  undisturbed  shall  glow  and  fade  the  grass, 
While  storm  and  sun  and  shadow  chase 
Across  each  bronze,  stern-featured  face, 

Yet  shall  this  place  to  many  a  one  be  dear ; 

And  Liberty  shall  love  to  linger  here  ! 

To  multitudes  who  come  with  pilgrim  feet 
The  sculptured  tablets  will  their  tales  repeat : 

Again  in  fancy  will  be  seen 

The  red-coats  on  the  meadows  green, 
And  Jane  McCrea  shall  leave  her  pillow  gory, 
Or  hearts  be  moved  by  Lady  Acland's  story. 

For  she  whose  love  was  greater  than  her  fears, 
Who  sought  our  camp  and  conquered  it  with  tears, 

Was  but  a  type  of  woman's  heart — 

Which  ever  bravely  plays  its  part — 


272  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Which  soothes  in  peace,  in  war  gives  cheering  word, 
Melts  lead  to  ball  and  reaches  down  the  sword 

Long  may  our  tribute  to  the  brave  endure, 
Here  where  the  winds  and  waters  journey  pure, 

And  give  to  all  who  on  it  gaze 

The  spirit  of  those  olden  days, 
When  love  of  right  and  liberty  unbound 
The  strongest  clasp  that  loved  ones  threw  around. 

Speak  !     Sons  of  Saratoga  here  to-day, 

Shall  it  not  be  this  valley's  boast  to  say : 
The  soil  of  Saratoga  sends 
The  kind  of  man  that  never  bends, 

Whether  in  council  hall  a  vote  he  wield 

Or  grasps  a  gun  upon  a  battle-field  ? 

And  you,  fair  village,  with  your  skyward  spires, 
Your  leisurely  canal,  your  factory  fires, 

Keep  for  yourself  as  fair  a  fame 

As  his  who  gave  to  you  a  name — 
The  courtly  soldier  gentlemen  who  now, 
Kindly  in  bronze,  meets  you  with  open  brow. 

England  !  a  foe  no  longer,  peace  to  thee  ! 

A  common  lineage  throbs  beneath  the  sea; 
And  though  this  day  brings  nearer  heart 
The  nation's  friends  who  took  our  part, 

We  send  to  her  who  rules  thy  fair  demesnes 

Greeting  from  sixty  million  kings  and  queens. 

The  nation  that  forgets  its  Marathon 
Has  lost  the  choicest  glory  it  has  won. 

Then  let  this  granite  shaft  of  grace 

Forever  be  a  rallying  place 
For  liberty  and  honor,  till  the  day 
The  stone  is  dust,  the  river  dried  away ! 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  273 

And  when,  a  century  hence,  this  column  hath 
Whirled  with  the  world  through  space  its  spiral  path, 

And  men  of  grander,  later  days, 

With  faces  strange,  upon  it  gaze  ; 
'Twill  draw  our  thought,  like  lightning  from  the  skies : 
The  man  who  dies  for  gentry  never  dies  ! 


THE  STAR-SPANGLED  BANNER,  PARA 
PHRASED  FOR  THE  OCCASION  BY 
COLONEL  B.  C.  BUTLER.* 

READ    BY    WILLIAM    L.    STONE,   SECRETARY  OF  THE 
SARATOGA  MONUMENT  ASSOCIATION. 

O  SAY,  can  you  see,  by  the  dawn's  early  light, 

On    Saratoga's    broad   plains   what    so    proudly    is 

streaming, 
Whose    broad   stripes   and    bright    stars  through  the 

perilous  fight, 
O'er  the  ramparts   we   watched  were  so   gallantly 

streaming  ? 

For  our  fathers  this  day  to  this  field  made  their  way 
To  glory  in  the  conquest  of  the  foe's  proud  array. 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  shall  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 

In  its  field  stood  the  plough,  the  axe  ceased  in  the  wood, 
From  his  log  cabin  gladly  the  wild  hunter  sallied, 

From  city  and  glen  they  came  like  a  flood 

To    the  ranks   where   the    brave   and   the    valiant 
were  rallied. 

*  Colonel  Benjamin  C.  Butler,  a  distinguished  lawyer 
for  many  years  of  Saratoga  Springs,  N.  Y.  He  always 
took  great  interest  in  everything  relating  to  the  Revo 
lutionary  period.  He  died  about  1879. 


274:  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

O  let  Stillwater's  Heights  and  Saratoga's  dread  fight 
Tell  how  nobly  our  sires  fought  and  bled  for  the  right 
While  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  doth  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 

This  day,  when  our  sires  trod  on  sceptre  and  chain, 

And  the  foes  of  proud  Britain  were  scattered  before  us, 
Then  went  up  to  heaven  with  loudest  acclaim 

From  the  hearts  of  true  freemen,  that  victory  is  o'er  us. 
Twas  Huzzah  !  Huzzah  !  from  the  lake  to  the  shore, 
Our  cause  it  has  triumphed,  we  are  subjects  no  more — 
The  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  doth  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 

O,  thus  be  it  ever,  when  freemen  shall  stand 

Between  their  loved  home  and  the  foes'  desolation, 
Blest  with  victory  and  peace,  may  the  heaven-blest  land 
Praise  the  power  that  hath  blest  and  preserved  it  a 

nation. 

Then  conquer  we  must,  for  our  cause  it  is  just, 
And  this  be  our  motto,  "  In  God  is  our  trust," 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  shall  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 


APPENDIX  I. 

THE    RELATIVE    FORCES    OF   THE    TWO 
ARMIES  AT  THE  SURRENDER. 

FORCE     UNDER    GATES. 

In  Volume  IX.  of  the  manuscript  papers  of  General 
Gates,  in  the  Library  of  the  New  York  Historical 
Society,  is  the  official  written  return  of  the  number 
of  Gates's  army  present  at  the  surrender  of  Burgoyne. 
It  is  entitled  "  A  General  Return  of  the  Army  com 
manded  by  Major-General  Gates  at  the  Convention  of 
Saratoga,  October  i7th,  1777,"  and  gives  the  numbers 
and  commands  as  follows  : 

Continental  Brigades  and  Corps. 

Nixon's 1430 

Poor's i  ,466 

Glover's M79 

Patterson's 1,300 

Learned's 1,257 

Morgan's  Corps 712 

Engineers  and  Artificers 72     7,716 

Militia,  Brigades  and  Corps. 

Warner's 1,371 

Annexed  to  Poor's 933 

Glover's 610 

Patterson's 468      3,382 

11,098 


276  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

In  his  "  Narrative,"  p.  27,  Burgoyne  says  :  "I  shall 
close  the  whole  of  this  by  delivering  at  your  table, 
from  the  hands  of  my  secretary,  an  authenticated  return 
of  the  force  of  General  Gates,  signed  by  himself,  and 
the  truth  of  it  will  be  supported  from  ocular  testimony 
by  every  officer  of  the  British  Army."  It  is  dated  Oc 
tober  i6th,  17/7,  and  is  printed  and  apparently  care 
fully  tabulated  in  full  in  the  Appendix  to  the  "  State 
of  the  Expedition,"  and  states  his  entire  force  as  18,624. 
Why  there  should  be  such  a  great  discrepancy  from 
the  original  manuscript  return  above  given  is  not  easily 
explained,  unless  the  following  extract  from  Dr.  Gor 
don's  "  History/'  Vol.  II.,  p.  268,  American  edition,  does 
so  :  "  Burgoyne  was  desirous  of  a  general  return  of  the 
army  commanded  by  Gates  at  the  time  of  the  con 
vention.  The  latter  understood  him,  and  was  careful 
not  to  lessen  the  return  a  single  man.  .  .  .  The  num 
ber  of  the  militia  was  continually  varying,  and  many 
of  them  were  at  a  considerable  distance  from  the  camp/ 

FORCE    UNDER    BURGOYNE. 

The  army  which  took  the  field  in  July,  1/77,  con 
sisted  of  seven  battalions  of  British  infantry — viz.: 
9th,  2Oth,  2ist,  24th,  47th,  53d,  and  62d  regiments,  of 
each  of  which  (as  also  of  three  regiments  left  in  Can 
ada)  the  flank  companies  were  detached  to  form  a  corps 
of  grenadiers  and  light  infantry,  under  Majors  Ac- 
land  and  the  Earl  of  Balcarras.  The  German  troops  con 
sisted  of  a  few  Hessian  rifles  (the  regiment  of  Hesse- 
Hanau),  a  corps  of  dismounted  dragoons,  and  a  mixed 
force  of  Brunswickers.  The  artillery  was  composed  of 
511  rank  and  file,  including  TOO  Germans,  with  a  large 
number  of  guns,  the  greater  part  of  which,  however, 
were  employed  only  on  the  lakes.  The  ordnance 
which  accompanied  the  force  on  their  line  of  march 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  277 

consisted  of  thirty-eight  pieces  oflight  artillery  attached 
to  columns,  and  a  pair  of  six  twenty-four  pounders, 
six  twelve-pounders,  and  four  howitzers. 

The  Royal  Army  was  divided  into  three  brigades 
under  Major-General  Phillips,  of  the  Royal  Artillery, 
and  Brigadier-Generals  Fraser  and  Hamilton.  The 
German  troops  were  distributed  among  the  three  bri 
gades,  with  one  corps  of  reserve  under  Colonel  (Briga 
dier-General)  Breymann,  and  were  immediately  com 
manded  by  Major-General  Riedesel.  Colonel  Kingston, 
and  Captain  Money  acted  as  adjutant  and  quarter 
master-general,  and  Sir  James  Clerke  (killed  at  Sara 
toga  in  the  action  of  October  7th)  and  Lord  Peter 
sham  (afterward  Earl  of  Harrington)  were  aides-de 
camp  to  General  Burgoyne. 

General  Burgoyne's  original  manuscript  (also  among 
the  Gates;  papers  in  the  New  York  Historical  Society 
Library),  entitled  "  State  of  the  British  Troops  at  the 
Convention  the  i7th  October,  1777,"  and  •'  Liste  de  la 
Force  du  Corps  des  Troupes  Allemands,*  le  jour  de 

*  A  great  deal  of  nonsense  has  been  written  in  con 
demnation  of  the  English  Government  employing  Ger 
mans  in  the  war  for  the  subjugation  of  her  revolted 
American  colonies.  But  does  any  soldier  work  for 
pure  patriotism  and  not  for  hire  ?  Besides,  at  that 
time,  the  German  soldier  belonged  body  and  soul  to 
him  to  whom  he  had  sold  himself:  he  had  no  coun 
try  ;  he  was  severed  from  every  tie — in  fact,  he  was, 
in  every  sense  of  the  word,  the  property  of  his  military 
lord,  who  could  do  with  him  as  he  saw  fit.  Again,  it 
may  well  be  asked,  wherein  did  this  action  of  the  Brit 
ish  Government  differ  from  that  of  the  United  States, 
employing  in  our  late  Civil  War  recruiting  agents  in  the 
different  German  ports  for  the  express  purpose  of  fill- 


278  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

la  Convention  le  1 7™  d'Octobre,  1777,"  both  on  one 
sheet,  signed  by  himself  separately  in  his  own  hand, 
and  delivered  to  General  Gates,  gives  all  his  regiments, 
the  strength  of  each,  and  the  total  force  he  surrendered, 
as  follows  : 


t  < 


Regiments.  Rank  and  File. 

9 4ii 

20 367 

21 412 

24 440 

47 342 

62 277 

Canadian  Companies  of  Grenadiers  and 

Light  Infantry 345 

Lieutenant  Nutt,  of  33d  Detachment, 

doing  duty  with  Artillery 95 

Royal  Artillery 212 


2,901 
Officers  of  all  grades 478 

3-379 
"J.  BURGOYNE." 

"fitat  General 33 

Regt.  des  Dragones 36 

Bat.  des  Grenadiers 270 

Regt.  de  Rhetz 420 

"      de  Riedesel 45  7 

"      de  Specht 414 

Bat.  F.  L.  de  Barnes..  182 


ing  up  her  depleted  armies,  and  also  purchasing  sub 
stitutes  in  Canada  ? 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  279 

Regt.  de  Hes.  Hanau 525 

Artillerie  de  Hes.  Hanau 75 


2,412 

"  J.    BURGOYNE.'' 

The  endorsement  on  the  back  of  the  return  is : 


"English 3,379 


German 2,4 1 2 


In  all 5»79* 

Dr.  Gordon,  whose  statements  have  been  proved  in 
most  every  case  unusually  accurate,  also  gives  the 
number  5791. 

APPENDIX  II. 

GENERAL  HORATIO  GATES. 

As  a  sketch  has  been  given  of  Burgoyne,  it  seems 
well  to  say  something  of  General  Gates,  though  he 
really  deserves  no  recognition  except  as  having  received 
the  sword  of  Burgoyne  ;  for  he  appears  to  have  been 
utterly  lacking  in  personal  courage,  having  not  only, 
in  anticipation  of  the  defeat  of  the  American  army  at 
Saratoga,  had  his  wagoners  keep  their  horses  hitched 
to  the  wagons,  to  be  in  readiness  to  retreat  in  case  the 
day  went  against  him,*  but  in  his  subsequent  duel 

*  While  Gates  cannot  of  course  be  censured  for 
guarding  against  every  emergency,  he  certainly  looked 
forward  to  a  possible  retreat ;  and  he  was,  to  say  the 
least,  not  animated  by  the  spirit  which  led  Cortez  to 
burn  his  ships  behind  him.  At  the  beginning  of  the 
battle  Quartermaster  General  Lewis  was  directed  to 


2SO  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

with  Wilkinson,  and  at  the  unfortunate  battle  of  Cam- 
den — in  which  De  Kalb,  at  the  sacrifice  of  his  own 
life,  played  the  same  role  to  Gates,  though  without 
the  same  result,  that  Arnold  did  at  the  battle  of  Sara 
toga — he  showed  the  same  white  feather. 

General  Gates  was  born  in  Maiden,  England,  in 
1728.  The  story  told  by  that  unmitigated  old  woman 
gossip,  Sir  Horace  Walpole,  that  he  was  a  natural  son 
of  Sir  Robert  Walpole  (the  father  of  Horace)  is  utterly 
without  foundation.*  He  was  born  in  lawful  wedlock, 

take  eight  men  with  him  to  the  field  to  convey  to  Gates 
information  from  time  to  time  concerning  the  progress 
of  the  action.  At  the  same  time,  the  baggage  trains 
were  all  loaded  up  ready  to  move  at  a  moment's 
notice.  The  first  information  that  arrived  represented 
the  British  troops  to  exceed  the  Americans,  and  the 
trains  were  ordered  to  move  on;  but  by  the  time  they 
were  under  motion,  more  favorable  news  was  received, 
and  the  order  was  countermanded.  Thus  they  con 
tinued  to  move  on  and  halt  alternately  until  the  joyful 
news — "  The  British  have  retreated" — rang  through 
the  camp,  which  reaching  the  attentive  guard  of  the 
teamsters,  they  all  with  one  accord  swung  their  hats, 
and  gave  three  long  and  loud  cheers.  The  glad  tidings 
were  transmitted  with  such  rapidity  from  one  to 
another  that  by  the  time  the  victorious  troops  had 
returned  to  their  quarters,  the  American  camp  was 
thronged  with  inhabitants  from  the  surrounding  country 
and  formed  a  scene  of  the  greatest  exultation.  (Stone's 
"Burgoyne's  Campaign.") 

*  Horace  Walpole  seems  to  have  had  a  monomania 
on  the  subject  of  natural  sons.  See  sketch  of  Bur 
goyne,  ante,  where  he  makes  that  general  a  natural  son 
of  Lord  Bingley — a  statement  also  utterly  without 
legal  foundation. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  281 

his  parents  having  been  the  butler  and  the  housekeeper 
of  the  Duke  of  Leeds.  He  entered  the  army — doubt 
less  under  the  auspices  of  that  duke — when  a  mere 
youth,  and  served  in  the  command  of  the  king's  New 
York  Independent  Company.  He  displayed  so  much 
ability  that,  in  1755,  he  was  stationed  at  Halifax, 
N.  S.,  where,  under  the  patronage  of  the  Honorable 
Edward  Cornwallis,  he  rose  rapidly  to  the  rank  of 
major.  He  was  with  Braddock  in  his  disastrous 
campaign,  receiving  a  shot  through  the  body  at  the 
slaughter  of  the  Monongahela.  At  the  beginning  of  the 
Revolution  he  offered  his  sword  to  Congress  ;  and  in 
July,  1775,  he  received  from  that  body  the  commission 
of  adjutant-general  Two  years  later,  through  cabals 
in  Congress,  he  was  appointed  to  supersede  Schuyler; 
and  having  reaped  the  fruits  of  what  that  general  had 
so  carefully  sown,  and  having  also,  by  the  merest 
accident,  received  the  sword  of  Burgoyne,  he  en 
deavored  to  supplant  Washington,  and  was  appointed 
to  the  command  of  the  Southern  Department*  His 
disastrous  defeat  at  Camden,  however,  and  his 
irresolute,  not  to  say  cowardly  conduct  on  that 

*  Flushed  with  his  fortuitous  success,  or  rather  with 
the  success  attending  his  fortuitous  position,  he  did  not 
wear  his  honors  gained  at  Saratoga  with  any  remarka 
ble  meekness.  On  the  contrary,  his  bearing  toward 
the  commander-in-chief  was  far  from  respectful.  He 
did  not  even  write  to  Washington  on  the  occasion  of 
the  victory  until  after  a  considerable  time  had  elapsed  ; 
and  it  was  not  until  November  2d  that  he  deigned 
to  communicate  to  the  commander-in-chief  a  word 
upon  the  subject,  and  then  only  incidentally,  as 
though  it  were  a  matter  of  but  secondary  import 
ance. 


282 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 


occasion*  soon  pricked  the  bubble  of  his  reputation ; 
and  his  subsequent  life  was  mostly  passed  in  compara 
tive  obscurity.  At  the  close  of  the  war  he  retired  to  his 
estate  in  Virginia,  where  he  lived  until  1790,  when  he 
removed  to  New  York  City.  In  1800  he  was  elected 
to  the  New  York  State  Legislature,  but  for  political 
reasons  resigned  soon  after  taking  his  seat.  His  death 
occurred,  after  a  long  illness,  at  his  house,  now  the 
corner  of  Twenty-second  Street  and  Second  Avenue, 
then  the  Bloomingdale  Pike.  He  is  buried  in  Trinity 
Churchyard/}- 

*  "  I  will  bring  the  rascals  back  with  me  into  line/' 
exclaimed  Gates,  as  the  militia  broke  and  fledatCamden; 
and  leaving  De  Kalb  to  bear  the  brunt  of  the  attack, 
he  spurred  after  them,  not  drawing  rein  till  he  reached 
Charlotte,  sixty  miles  from  the  field  of  battle  !"  (Green's 
German  Element  in  the  War  of  American  Indepen 
dence^)  Perhaps,  however,  Gates's  horse  was  unman 
ageable  and  took  the  bit  into  his  own  mouth  ! 

f  Through  the  courtesy  of  my  friend,  Rev.  Dr.  Mor 
gan  Dix,  I  am  enabled  to  set  the  much-mooted  question 
as  to  where  Gates  is  buried,  at  rest,  as  will  be  seen  by 
the  following  leaf  from  the  Register  of  Trinity  par 
ish,  kindly  copied  and  sent  to  me  by  that  gentleman  : 


i8o5. 

Persons  Deceased. 

Where  Buried. 

AGE. 

Years. 

Months. 

April  u. 

General  Horatio  Gates. 

Trinity.           

78 



A  true  copy  from  the  Register  of  Burials  of  the  par 
ish  of  Trinity  Church  in  the  city  of  New  York. 

Attest :  MORGAN  Dix,  Rector. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  283 

Gates  was  a  man  of  great  plausibility  and  address,  of 
gentlemanly  instincts,  of  a  handsome  person  and  fair 
education,  and  a  great  lion  in  society.  Though  having 
many  faults,  the  chief  of  which  was  an  overweening 
confidence  in  his  own  ability,  combined  with  arrogance, 
untruthfulness  and  apparently  a  lack  of  personal  cour 
age,  he  had  also  some  noble  traits  of  character. 
Before  removing  to  New  York  from  Virginia,  he 
emancipated  his  slaves,  providing  for  such  of  them  as 
could  not  take  care  of  themselves.  In  his  domestic 
relations  he  was  an  affectionate  husband  and  father,* 
and  during  the  last  years  of  his  life  a  sincere  Christian. 
He  married  Mary,  only  child  of  James  Valence,  of 
Liverpool,  who,  at  her  father's  death,  before  the  Rev 
olutionary  War,  emigrated  to  this  country,  bringing 
with  her  $450,000.  In  the  struggle  for  independence 
Mrs.  Gates  freely  expended  nearly  all  of  her  fortune 
in  a  lavish  hospitality  upon  her  husband's  companions 
in  arms,  especially  those  who  were  in  indigent  circum 
stances;  and  many  of  the  Revolutionary  heroes  were 
participants  in  her  bounty,  particularly  Thaddeus 
Kosciusko,f  who,  when  wounded,  lay  six  months  at 

*  For  a  charming  and  loving  letter  to  his  wife,  just 
after  the  battles  of  Saratoga,  see  my  Burgoyne  s 
Campaign. 

f  There  are,  perhaps,  few  now  living  who  are  aware 
that  Kosciusko  left  behind  him  in  America  a  testimo 
nial  of  his  fervent  love  of  liberty,  as  eminently 
characteristic  of  the  man  as  was  his  famous  reply  to 
the  Emperor  Paul,  who  on  Kosciusko's  release  from 
prison  wished  to  restore  him  his  sword.  "  I  have  no 
need  of  a  sword,  since  I  have  no  longer  a  country  !" 

The  will  of  Kosciusko  (on  record  in  the  clerk's 
office  of  Albemarle  Co.,  Va.),  dated  "Wills,  1819," 


284  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

her  house,  tenderly  nursed  by  herself  and  her  husband. 
Mrs.  Gates,  who  survived  her  husband,  left  the  residue 

was  attested  by  Thomas  Jefferson.  The  will  was 
written  by  Kosciusko  in  1798,  on  the  occasion  of 
his  visit  to  America  during  that  year,  when,  having 
been  released  from  prison,  he  came  to  renew  his  old 
associations.  The  will  reads  as  follows :  "  I,  Thaddeus 
Kosciusko,  being  just  on  my  departure  from  America, 
do  hereby  declare  and  direct  that  should  I  make  no 
other  testamentary  disposition  of  my  property  in  the 
United  States,  I  hereby  authorize  my  friend,  Thomas 
Jefferson,  to  employ  the  whole  thereof  in  purchasing 
negroes  from  among  his  own  or  any  others,  and  giving 
them  liberty  in  my  name  ;  in  giving  them  an  education 
in  trades  or  otherwise,  and  in  having  them  instructed 
for  their  new  condition  in  the  duties  of  morality, 
which  may  make  them  good  neighbors,  good  fathers 
or  mothers,  and  in  their  duties  as  citizens,  teaching 
them  to  be  defenders  of  their  liberties  and  country, 
and  of  the  good  order  of  society,  and  in  whatsoever 
may  make  them  happy  and  useful.  And  I  make 
the  said  Thomas  Jefferson  executor  of  this,  5th  day  of 
May,  1798.  T.  KOSCIUSKO. 

It  is  not  known  in  what  the  property  of  Kosciusko 
consisted  (very  likely  land  given  him,  as  to  Steuben, 
John  Rose  and  others,  by  Congress,  in  recognition  of 
their  services)  nor,  indeed,  what  disposition  was  made 
of  it.  But  whatever  the  property  may  have  been,  the 
desire  that  it  should  be  put  to  the  use  indicated  by  the 
will  is  highly  characteristic  of  the  philanthropic  patriot, 
whose  whole  life  was  one  of  continual  sacrifice  to  the 
well-being  of  others  ;  who  had  early  emancipated  his 
own  Polish  serfs ;  who  had  given  money  and  personal 
service  to  the  cause  of  American  freedom  ;  and  whose 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  285 

of  her  fortune  ($90,000)  to  several  relatives,  whose 
descendants  are  still  living  in  New  York  and  Phila 
delphia.* 

To  sum  up,  had  not  Gates  allowed  his  ambition  to 
overstep  the  bounds  of  loyalty  to  his  chief,  he  would 
have  remained  among  the  first  of  our  Revolutionary 
heroes.  As  it  is,  he  is  known  merely  as  the  chance 
conqueror  at  Saratoga,  and  as  one,  moreover,  who,  by 
base  chicanery,  endeavored  to  the  utmost  of  his 
ability  to  supplant  Washington  himself. 


APPENDIX  III, 

BURGOYNE'S  PROCLAMATION. 

(From  the  Providence  "  Gazette'  of  August  i6tk,  1777.) 

[The  following  address  from  General  Burgoyne  to 
the  Tories  and  timid  Whigs  was  last  week  received 
from  Rhode  Island,  and  is  here  inserted  (Connecticut 
Journal,  August  27th,  1777)  lest  they  should  suspect 
that  any  Matter  is  suppressed  which  they  might  sup 
pose  tended  to  their  political  salvation.  As  this  per 
formance  is  written  in  the  true  Rhodomontade  and 
bombastic  Stile  of  a  Don  Quixote,  and  absolutely 
contains  almost  as  many  Falsehoods  as  Assertions,  it 
is  judged  unnecessary  for  the  present  to  make  any 

last  and  most  strenuous  exertions,  that  found  a  sad 
culmination  in  his  imprisonment  for  years  and  exile 
from  his  country,  were  in  behalf  of  that  down-trodden 
fatherland.  (See  Scribners  Monthly,  February,  1879.) 
*  Letter  from  Thomas  Singleton,  of  Philadelphia, 
Pa.  (a  descendant  of  Mrs.  Gates),  to  the  writer. 


286  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Remarks  thereon.  It  may,  however,  not  be  improper 
to  observe  (from  authentic  Intelligence  received) 
that  since  this  curious  address  made  its  appearance, 
Burgoyne's  motley  troops  (composed  of  black  and 
white  savages)  have  actually  butchered  and  scalped  a 
considerable  number  of  those  very  Tories  to  whom  he 
had  promised  Protection,  and  whose  "  Undertakings" 
he  had  plighted  his  Faith  to  assist  and  encourage.~\ 

PROCLAMATION. 

BY  JOHN  BURGOYNE,  Esquire,  etc.,  etc.,  Lieu- 
tenant- General  of  his  Majesty's  Forces  in  America, 
Colonel  of  the  Queens  Regiment  of  Light  Dragoons, 
Governor  of  Fort  William  in  North  Britain,  one  of 
the  Representatives  of  the  Commons  of  Great  Britain 
in  Parliament  \author  of  a  celebrated  Tragic  Comedy, 
called  the  Blockade  of  Boston\  and  commanding  an 
army  and  Fleet  in  an  Expeditiou  from  Canada,  etc., 
etc. 

"  The  forces  entrusted  to  my  command  are  designed 
to  act  in  concert,  and  upon  a  common  principle,  with 
the  numerous  armies  and  fleets,  which  already  display 
in  every  quarter  of  America  the  power,  the  mercy  of 
the  king;  the  cause  in  which  the  British  arms  are 
thus  exerted  appeals  to  the  most  affecting  interest  of 
the  human  heart,  and  the  military  servants  of  the 
crown,  at  first  called  forth  for  the  sole  purpose  of 
restoring  the  rights  of  the  constitution,  and  duty  to 
their  sovereign,  the  other  extensive  incitements,  which 
spring  from  a  due  sense  of  the  general  privileges  of 
mankind.  To  the  eyes  and  ears  of  the  temperate  part 
of  the  public,  and  to  the  breasts  of  suffering  thousands 
in  the  provinces  be  the  melancholy  appeal.  Whether 
the  present  unnatural  rebellion  has  not  been  made  the 
foundation  of  the  completest  system  of  tyranny  that 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  287 

ever  God,  in  His  displeasure,  suffered  for  a  time  to 
be  exercised  over  a  froward  and  stubborn  generation, 
arbitrary  imprisonments,  confiscation  of  property,  perse 
cution  and  torture,  unprecedented  in  the  inquisitions 
of  the  Romish  Church,  are  among  the  palpable  enor 
mities  that  verify  the  affirmation.  These  are  inflicted 
by  assemblies  and  committees,  who  dare  to  profess 
themselves  friends  to  liberty,  upon  the  most  quiet 
subject,  without  distinction  of  age  or  sex,  for  the  sole 
crime,  often  from  the  sole  suspicion  of  having  adhered 
in  principle  to  the  government  under  which  they  were 
born,  and  to  which  by  every  tie  divine  and  human  they 
owe  allegiance.  To  consummate  these  shocking 
proceedings,  the  profanation  of  religion  is  added  to 
the  most  profligate  prostitution  of  common  reason  ! 
The  consciences  of  men  are  set  at  naught,  and  multi 
tudes  are  compelled  not  only  to  bear  arms,  but  also 
to  swear  subjection  to  an  usurpation  they  abhor.  Ani 
mated  by  these  considerations,  at  the  head  of  troops 
in  the  full  powers  of  health,  discipline  and  valor,  deter 
mined  to  strike  when  necessary,  and  anxious  to  save 
when  possible,  I,  by  these  presents,  invite  and  exhort 
all  persons  in  all  places  where  the  progress  of  this  army 
may  point,  and  by  the  blessing  of  God  I  will  extend 
it  far,  to  maintain  such  a  conduct  as  may  justify  me  in 
protecting  their  lands,  habitations  and  families.  The 
intention  of  this  address  is  to  hold  forth  security,  not 
depredation,  to  the  country ;  to  those  whose  spirit  and 
principle  may  induce  them  to  partake  in  the  glorious 
task  of  redeeming  their  countrymen  from  dungeons, 
and  re-establishing  the  blessings  of  legal  government, 
I  offer  encouragement  and  employment ;  and  upon  the 
first  intelligence  of  their  association,  I  will  find  means 
to  assist  their  undertakings.  The  domestic,  the  indus 
trious,  the  infirm,  I  am  desirous  to  protect,  provided 


288  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

they  remain  quietly  at  their  houses,  that  they  do  not 
suffer  their  cattle  to  be  removed,  or  their  corn  or  forage 
to  be  secreted  or  destroyed  ;  that  they  do  not  breakup 
their  bridges  or  roads,  or  by  any  other  acts,  directly  or 
indirectly,  endeavor  to  obstruct  the  operations  of  the 
king's  troops,  or  supply  or  assist  those  of  the  enemy. 
Every  species  of  provision  brought  to  my  camp  will 
be  paid  for  at  an  equitable  rate,  in  solid  coin. 

"  In  consciousness  of  Christianity,  my  royal  master's 
clemency,  and  the  honor  of  soldiership,  I  have  dwelt 
upon  this  invitation,  and  wished  for  more  persuasive 
terms  to  give  it  Expression:  and  let  not  people  be  led 
to  disregard  it  by  considering  the  immediate  situation 
of  my  camp :  I  have  but  to  give  stretch  to  the 
Indian  forces  under  my  direction — and  they  amount 
to  thousands — to  overtake  the  hardened  enemies  of 
Great  Britain  and  America :  I  consider  them  the 
same  wherever  they  lurk.  If  notwithstanding  these 
endeavors  and  sincere  inclination  to  assist  them,  the 
frenzy  of  hostility  should  remain,  I  trust  I  shall 
stand  acquitted  in  the  eyes  of  God  and  of  men  in 
denouncing  and  executing  the  vengeance  of  the  State 
against  the  wilful  outcast.  The  messengers  of  justice 
and  of  wrath  await  them  in  the  field,  and  devastation, 
famine,  and  every  concomitant  horror  that  a  reluctant 
but  indispensable  prosecution  of  military  duty  must 
occasion  will  bar  the  way  to  their  return. 

"J.  BURGOYNE. 

"  Camp  at  the  River  Bouquett  [sic  Bouquet]  June  23^, 
1777.  By  order  of  his  Excellency,  the  Lieutenant 
General. 

"  ROBERT  KINGSTON, 

"  Secretary? 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  289 

COMMENTS  ON  THE  ABOVE. 

Now,  while  Burgoyne  was  greatly  ridiculed  by  the 
patriots  of  the  day  for  this  proclamation,  yet  from  the 
standpoint  of  those  who  most  conscientiously  believed 
it  was  wrong  to  rebel  against  the  king  and  his  legiti 
mate  government,  it  seems  to  me  that  he  only  did 
what  his  duty  required.  Seen  now  from  a  distance,  it 
must  be  admitted  that  there  were  many  good  men- 
men  of  established  integrity — who  believed  the  colonists 
were  wrong  in  the  stand  they  took.  I  know  it  is  the 
habit  to  ridicule  all  such  ;  but  while  myself  believing 
that  the  colonists  were  right  in  throwing  off  the  yoke 
of  the  mother-country — which  had  become  most  in 
tolerable — yet  it  seems  to  me  that  some  charity  should 
be  exercised  toward  those  who  conscientiously  at  the 
time  believed  the  contrary.  Hence  this  practice  of 
sneering  at  those  who  were  not  willing  at  once  to  re 
nounce  their  allegiance  to  their  king  is  not  to  be  com 
mended.  Take,  for  example,  our  late  Civil  War.  We 
of  the  North  believed  that  the  South  had  no  right  to 
rebel ;  yet  the  right  to  rebel  is  an  inherent  right.  We 
of  the  North  put  the  rebellion  down,  and  rightly ;  still, 
had  the  South  been  successful  they  would  have 
been  considered  deserving  of  praise  and  would  have 
been  patriots  among  their  own  section.  They  did  not ; 
hence  they  were  rebels.  In  the  same  way,  had  the 
colonists  in  our  Revolutionary  contest  been  un 
successful,  they  would  have  been  rebels.  Success, 
after  all,  makes  the  great  difference.  Of  course,  it  must 
be  taken  into  account  that  the  South  were  fighting,  so 
to  speak,  for  slavery,  which  in  itself  damned  their  cause, 
and  justly.  Still,  I  think  that  the  inherent  right  to 
rebel  is  universally  admitted.  As  I  say,  had  the 
American  colonists  not  been  successful  they  would 


290  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

have  been  rebels,  and  Washington  an  arch  conspira 
tor.  They  were  successful — hence  it  was  all  right ;  in 
other  words,  sitccess  is  the  great  arbiter  of  future 
opinion. 

Burgoyne,  therefore,  in  his  proclamation,  as  a  loyal 
subject  of  his  king,  did  right  and  does  not  deserve 
the  sneers  which  have  been  thrown  at  him.  Had 
the  cause  of  the  crown  succeeded,  Arnold,  even,  would 
have  been  considered  only  a  man  who  went  back  to 
his  allegiance,  in  the  same  way,  that,  had  the  South  suc 
ceeded,  Lee  and  Davis  would  now  be  looked  upon  as  sav 
iours  instead  of  rebels.  Still,  this  does  not  justify  Arnold 
in  betraying  the  cause  of  the  colonists,  which  he  had 
espoused.  Had  he  come  out  frankly  and  above  board 
and  said  to  Washington,  "  I  am  convinced  that  I  have 
been  wrong,  and  I  herewith  renounce  my  position  as 
general,"  no  sensible  man  could  have  blamed  him. 
His  treachery,  however,  puts  him  beyond  the  pale  of 
any  sympathy.  Burgoyne,  however,  as  a  loyal  sub 
ject  of  his  king  does  not  merit  sarcasm. 


APPENDIX  IV, 

TIMOTHY  MURPHY,  THE  SHARP 
SHOOTER. 

THE  soldier  who  shot  General  Eraser  was  Timothy 
Murphy,  a  native  of  Pennsylvania.  He  enlisted  in 
Northumberland  County  in  July,  1775,  in  Captain 
John  Loudon's  company,  First  Pennsylvania  Conti 
nental  Line.  He  was  detached  with  Captain  James 
Parr,  who  succeeded  Loudon,  under  Morgan,  when  that 
officer  was  ordered  by  Washington  to  the  assistance  of 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  291 

General  Gates,  on  August  i6th,  1777,  and  arrived  in 
Gates's  camp  on  the  22d  of  that  month.* 

The  first  we  hear  of  Murphy  was  his  being  one  of 
the  best  shots  among  Morgan's  sharpshooters.  At 
the  second  battle  of  Saratoga  the  latter  noticed  repeat 
edly  during  that  conflict  a  noble-looking  British  officer, 
who,  mounted  upon  a  magnificent  black  charger, 
dashed  from  one  end  of  the  line  to  the  other,  appear 
ing  wherever  the  danger  was  greatest,  and  by  his 
judgment,  courage  and  activity,  frequently  retrieving 
the  fortunes  of  the  day  ,when  all  seemedon  the  point 
of  being  lost.  He  recollected  having  seen  this 
officer  in  the  battle  of  September  igth,  having  on  that 
occasion  admired  him  for  the  skill  and  bravery  which 
he  displayed.  While  this  officer  lived,  Morgan 
considered  the  issue  of  the  contest  a  doubtful  one. 
He  therefore,  as  stated  in  the  text,  selected  twelve  of 
his  best  marksmen,  and  leading  them  to  a  suitable 
position,  whence  he  pointed  out  the  doomed  officer,  he 
told  them  to  kill  him  when  next  he  came  within  reach 
of  their  rifles. f  Several  of  the  sharp-shooters  discharged 
their  pieces  without  effect,  but  when  Murphy  fired 
Fraser  fell. 

Nor,  while  in  Gates's  camp,  was  he  distinguished 
solely  as  a  "  crack  shot."  His  coolness  and  daring  also 
made  him  a  man  of  mark.  It  is  related  that  "just  be 
fore  the  first  battle  of  Saratoga  he  went  out  of  the 
American  camp,  and  having  ascertained  the  British 
countersign,  he  went  into  one  of  their  tents,  and 
seeing  an  officer  writing  alone,  he  whispered  to  him 
(pointing  to  his  hunting-knife)  that  if  he  spoke  a  word 

*  Letter  to  the  author  from  Hon.  James   B.  Linn 
of  Harrisburg,  Pa. 

f  Graham's  "  Lite  of  Morgan." 


292  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

he  would  make  daylight  shine  through  him.  The  offi 
cer,  not  having  a  sword  or  pistols  near  him,  reluctantly 
marched  before  him  to  the  American  camp.  At  the 
last  battle  of  Saratoga,  in  which  both  armies  were 
engaged,  Murphy  was,  as  he  states,  within  five  feet  of 
Arnold  when  he  passed  over  the  fortifications,  sword  in 
hand.  Murphy  to  the  day  of  his  death  ascribed  the 
chief  honor  of  Burgoyne's  defeat  to  General  Arnold, 
and  believed  the  latter  never  would  have  betrayed 
his  country  had  he  received  the  honors  he  so  richly 
merited." 

After  the  capture  of  Burgoyne,  Murphy  returned 
with  Morgan's  corps  to  the  Southern  department,  and 
was  also  present  at  the  battle  of  Monmouth  in  June, 
1778.*  A  short  time  after  that  action,  Lieutenant- 

*  The  effective  usefulness  of  this  famous  body  of 
experienced  riflemen  in  checking  the  aggressive  and 
savage  bands  of  Indians  which  formed  a  portion  of 
Burgoyne's  army  was  soon  apparent  to  General 
Gates,  to  whom  Washington  had  sent  it  in  August. 
The  corps,  as  soon  as  it  reached  the  Northern  army, 
not  only  worsted  the  Indians  in  the  various  encoun 
ters  in  which  they  became  confronted,  but  it  also 
created  such  a  panic  among  the  red  men  that  they  at 
once  lost  all  interest  in  fighting  and  scouting  for  Bur 
goyne,  and  hastily  departed  for  their  homes.  Gates 
then  employed  the  corps  as  sharp-shooters  and  skir 
mishers,  in  which  line  of  duty  it  did  splendid  service. 
After  Washington's  army  had  been  compelled,  as  the 
result  of  the  battle  of  Brandywine,  to  retire  before  the 
larger  force  of  Sir  William  Howe,  the  commanding 
general's  situation  was  such  as  to  ask  for  its  return  to 
him.  His  letter  to  General  Gates  embodying  the  re 
quest  rs  as  follows  : 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  293 

Colonel  William  Butler,  with  the  Fourth  Pennsyl 
vania  Regiment  and  three  companies  of  riflemen  from 
Morgan's  corps,  under  Major  Posey,  commanded  by 
Captains  Long  of  Maryland,  and  Parr  and  Simpson 
of  the  First  Pennylvania,  were  ordered  up  to  Albany 
and  thence  to  Schoharie.  Thus,  Lieutenants  Thomas 
Boyd  and  Timothy  Murphy  again  went  to  New  York 
to  defend  the  frontier  from  the  savage  enemy  ;  and 
upon  the  disbanding  of  those  troops — their  term  of 
enlistment  having  expired — Murphy  and  some  others 
remained  and  served  in  the  militia  until  the  end  of  the 
war.  His  skill  in  the  desultory  war  which  the  Indians 
carried  on  gave  him  so  high  a  reputation,  that  though 
not  nominally  the  commander,  he  usually  directed  all 

"CAMP  NEAR  POTTSGROVE,  September  24,  1777. 

SIR  :  This  army  has  not  been  able  to  oppose  Gen 
eral  Howe  with  the  success  that  was  wished,  and 
needs  a  re-enforcement.  I  therefore  request,  if  you 
have  been  so  fortunate  as  to  oblige  General  Burgoyne 
to  retreat  to  Ticonderoga,  or  if  you  have  not,  and  cir 
cumstances  will  admit,  that  you  will  order  Colonel 
Morgan  to  join  me  again  with  his  corps.  I  sent  him 
up  when  I  thought  you  materially  wanted  him,  and  if 
his  services  can  be  dispensed  with  now,  you  will  direct 
him  to  return  immediately.  You  will  perceive  I  do 
not  mention  this  by  way  of  command,  but  leave  you 
to  determine  upon  it  according  to  your  situation  ;  if 
they  come,  they  should  proceed  by  way  of  water  from 
Albany  as  low  down  as  Peekskill  ;  in  such  case  you 
will  give  Colonel  Morgan  the  necessary  orders  to  join 
me  with  dispatch.  I  am,  sir,  your  most  obedient 
servant, 

"  Go.  WASHINGTON. 

"  MAJOR-GENERAL  GATES." 


294  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

the  movements  of  the  scouts  that  were  sent  out,  and 
on  many  important  occasions  the  commanding  offi 
cers  found  it  dangerous  to  neglect  his  advice  ;  his 
double  rifle,  his  skill  as  a  marksman,  and  his  fleetness, 
either  in  retreat  or  pursuit,  made  him  an  object  both 
of  dread  and  of  vengeance  to  the  Indians ;  they 
formed  many  plans  to  destroy  him,  but  he  always 
eluded  them,  and  sometimes  made  them  suffer  for 
their  temerity. 

He  fought  the  Indians  with  their  own  weapons. 
When  circumstances  permitted,  he  tomahawked  and 
scalped  his  fallen  enemy  ;  and  he  boasted  after  the  war 
that  he  had  slain  forty  of  the  enemy  with  his  own 
hand,  more  than  half  of  whom  he  had  scalped  :  he 
took  delight  in  perilous  adventures,  and  seemed  to 
love  danger  for  its  own  sake. 

The  Indians  were  unable  to  conjecture  how  he 
could  discharge  his  rifle  twice  without  having  time  to 
reload ;  and  his  singular  good  fortune  in  escaping  un 
hurt  led  them  to  suppose  that  he  was  attended  by 
some  invisible  being,  who  warded  off  their  bullets  and 
sped  his  with  unerring  certainty  to  the  mark.  When 
they  had  learned  the  mystery  of  his  doubled-barrelled 
rifle,  they  were  careful  not  to  expose  themselves  too 
much  until  he  had  fired  twice,  knowing  that  he  must 
have  time  to  reload  his  piece  before  he  could  do  them 
further  injury. 

One  day  having  separated  from  his  party,  he  was 
pursued  by  a  number  of  Indians,  all  of  whom  he  out 
ran,  excepting  one;  Murphy  turned  round,  fired  upon 
this  Indian,  and  killed  him.  Supposing  that  the 
others  had  given  up  the  pursuit,  he  stopped  to  strip 
the  dead,  when  the  rest  of  his  pursuers  came  in  sight. 
He  snatched  the  rifle  of  his  fallen  foe,  and  with  it 
killed  one  of  his  pursuers;  the  rest,  now  sure  of  their 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  295 

prey,  with  a  yell  of  joy  heedlessly  rushed  on,  hoping 
to  make  him  their  prisoner.  He  was  ready  to  drop 
down  with  fatigue,  and  was  likely  to  be  overtaken, 
when,  turning  round,  he  discharged  the  remaining  bar 
rel  of  his  rifle,  and  killed  the  foremost  of  the  Indians. 
The  rest,  astonished  at  his  firing  three  times  in  succes 
sion,  fled,  crying  out  that  he  had  "  a  great  medicine  of  a 
gun  that  would  shoot  all  day  without  loading."  In 
deed,  so  dangerous  was  Murphy  regarded,  that  it  was 
not  long  before  the  Tories  set  an  extra  price  on  his 
scalp — a  price  that  was  never  paid,  although  many 
Indians  lost  their  scalp  in  trying  to  win  the  reward. 
One  of  the  attempts  to  capture  him  which  is  still 
handed  down  in  Schoharie  tradition,  as  having  occurred 
toward  the  close  of  the  Revolution,  was  as  follows  : 
Murphy  had  a  cow,  on  the  neck  of  which  he  had  placed 
a  bell,  that  he  might  the  better  find  her  in  the  woods. 
A  shrewd  Indian  took  the  bell  oft  the  cow's  neck,  and 
having  placed  it  on  his  own,  went  jingling  it  about  in 
the  woods,  hoping  by  this  means  to  entice  the  cow's 
owner  within  killing  or  capturing  distance.  The  scout, 
however,  knew  too  well  the  different  music  produced 
by  a  cow  and  an  Indian;  and  so  driving  the  animal 
home  from  another  part  of  the  woods,  he  left  the 
"  ding-dong"  warrior  to  the  enjoyment  of  his  own  wit. 
On  another  occasion,  while  on  Sullivan's  expedition, 
he  and  twenty-five  others  were  surrounded  by  five  hun 
dred  Tories  and  Indians,  under  Butler  and  Brant.  Two 
attempts  to  cut  their  way  out  had  resulted  in  failure, 
with  the  loss  of  seventeen  of  their  number.  The  third 
attempt  was  more  successful  ;  for  Murphy,  having 
tumbled  a  huge  warrior  into  the  dust  (which  caused 
his  dusky  brethren  to  laugh  even  in  the  heat  of  battle), 
effected  an  opening  in  the  circle,  through  which  his 
comrades  fled — sauve  qui  peut — the  Indians  giving 


296  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

chase.  After  a  little  Murphy  observed  that  he  had 
distanced  all  his  pursuers  except  two — one  a  tall  and 
the  other  a  short  Indian.  Several  times  as  they  neared 
him  he  would  raise  his  rifle  (which  was  unloaded)  as 
if  to  shoot,  whereupon  they  would  fall  back.  Finding 
as  he  ran  that,  owing  to  the  swelling  of  his  feet,  his 
moccasins  began  to  pain  him,  he  opened  a  clasp-knife, 
and  while  running  slit  the  tops  of  the  moccasins  (at 
the  risk  of  cutting  the  tendons  of  his  feet)  and  so  got 
relief.  Shortly  after,  entering  a  swale  and  getting  his 
feet  caught  in  the  long  grass,  he  fell  at  full  length.  It 
was  to  this  at  first  seemingly  untoward  accident  that 
he  owed  his  temporary  safety  and  final  escape  ;  for  the 
long  grass  affording  a  favorable  place  for  concealment, 
he  lay  still  until  his  pursuers  had  passed  on.  Loading 
his  rifle,  he  went  on  his  way  rejoicing  at  his  fortunate 
escape,  and  with  reason  ;  for  had  he  been  captured  he 
knew  that  any  hope  for  mercy  would  have  been  in 
vain,  since  at  that  very  time  he  had  an  Indian's  scalp 
in  his  pocket  and  the  same  hairless  redskin's  moccasins 
on  his  feet.  He  had  not  gone  far,  however,  before  he 
saw  an  Indian  approaching  him.  The  discovery  was 
mutual,  and  they  simultaneously  took  trees.  After 
dodging  each  other  for  some  time,  Murphy  resorted 
to  a  very  old  and,  one  would  think,  a  worn-out  ruse. 
He  drew  his  ramrod,  and  placing  his  hat  upon  it,  gently 
moved  it  on  one  side  of  the  tree.  The  Indian  at  once 
put  a  ball  through  it,  and  it  dropped.  Whereupon, 
running  up  to  obtain  the  scalp,  he  received  Murphy's 
bullet  in  his  breast ;  and  as  he  fell  he  exclaimed, 
"  O-nah  !"  Lieutenant  Boyd,  the  commander  of  the 
party,  and  who  attempted  to  escape  with  Murphy,  was 
less  fortunate.  Less  fleet  of  foot,  he  was  captured  and 
subjected  to  horrible  torture.  The  Seneca  Indians, 
under  Little  Beard  and  instigated  by  Butler,  made  an 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  297 

incision  in  his  abdomen,  fastened  his  intestines  to  a 
tree,  and  compelled  him  to  walk  around  it  until  they 
were  all  drawn  out.  They  then  enlarged  his  mouth, 
dug  his  nails  out,  cut  his  tongue  out  and  his  ears  off, 
cut  his  nose  off  and  put  it  in  his  mouth,  dug  his  eyes 
out,  and  as  he  was  dying  cut  off  his  head,  which  was 
their  most  humane  act.  "After  this,"  says  a  writer 
personally  cognizant  of  the  affair,  "  there  began  to  be 
mysterious  disappearances  of  Tories  and  Indians  ;  and 
it  was  noticed  that,  coincident  with  each  disappear 
ance,  there  would  be  a  brush-heap  fire  in  the  vicinity, 
in  which  the  missing  person  was  last  seen.  It  is  to  be 
supposed  that  calcined  bones  might  have  been  found 
by  those  who  cared  to  look  in  the  ashes  of  these  brush 
fires.  The  remaining  Tories  and  Indians  took  the  hint, 
and  left  that  part  of  the  country,  so  that  the  inhabitants 
at  length  breathed  freer." 

At  the  close  of  the  war,  Murphy,  who  had  mean 
time  married,  instead  of  returning  to  his  native  State, 
Pennsylvania,  settled  in  Schoharie  as  a  farmer.  But, 
if  tradition  is  to  be  believed,  his  old  habits  still  clung 
to  him.  When  peace  was  declared  many  of  the  Scho 
harie  Indians  had  the  temerity  to  return  and  settle 
again  among  a  people  whose  houses  and  barns  they 
had  burned  and  whose  friends  and  relatives  had  fallen 
beneath  their  tomahawks.  Among  them  was  one 
Indian,  named  Seth  Henry,  who  had  killed  more  Scho 
harie  people  than  any  other  man.  His  nature,  even 
for  an  Indian,  seemed  an  unusually  cruel  one  ;  and 
he  would  sometimes  leave  a  war-club  upon  the  dead 
body  of  his  victim,  with  a  horrid  row  of  notches  cut 
on  it,  each  notch  indicating  a  scalp  taken.  An  ener 
getic  savage,  he  once  led  a  party  from  Fort  Niagara 
in  the  winter  to  capture  certain  Schoharie  patriots  ; 
and  he  succeeded,  travelling  six  hundred  miles,  though, 


298  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

to  do  so.  He,  too,  had  the  audacity  to  come  back,  but 
he  was  much  upon  his  guard.  One  day  he  started  to 
go  from  one  house  to  another.  Murphy  was  also  ob 
served  to,  go  in  the  same  direction  shortly  afterward ; 
and  it  is  a  curious  coincidence  that,  as  far  as  can  be 
ascertained,  Seth  Henry  never  reached  his  destination, 
nor  was  he  ever  afterward  seen  either  alive  or  dead. 

Murphy's  passions  were  easily  aroused,  and  as  is  the 
case  with  such  natures,  as  easily  subdued.  The  follow 
ing  anecdote  is  an  instance  in  point.*  Some  time  in 
the  latter  part  of  the  Revolution  Murphy  had  charge 
of  a  small  scout  which  went  to  reconnoitre  in  the 
vicinity  of  Oquago.  While  there  they  took  three  pris 
oners,  one  of  whom  was  a  Scotch  lad,  and  soon  after 
started  on  their  return  to  Schoharie.  In  the  night  the 
boy  escaped,  taking  along  Murphy's  rifle,  an  act  not 
very  pleasing  to  the  fearless  ranger.  Some  months 
afterward  the  boy  was  retaken  by  another  scout,  and 
with  him  the  stolen  firelock.  When  its  owner  learned 
that  the  boy  was  taken,  and  was  approaching  as  a  pris 
oner,  his  passions  took  fire,  and  he  declared  his  inten 
tion  of  killing  him,  arming  himself  with  a  tomahawk 
for  that  purpose.  Elerson,  a  fellow-scout,  and  who 
told  this  anecdote  to  Mr.  Simms,  reasoned  the  matter 
with  him.  He  told  him  to  put  himself  in  the  boy's 
place,  and  asked  if  he,  similarly  situated,  would  not 
have  acted  in  the  same  manner  as  the  boy  had  done. 
Murphy's  better  nature  soon  yielded  to  this  reasoning ; 
his  anger  was  appeased,  and  the  boy  was  brought  into 
his  presence  without  receiving  any  injury.  The  boy 
was  afterward  taken  to  Albany  and  sold,  according  to 
the  custom  of  those  times,  into  servitude  for  a  short 
period.  Murphy,  speaking  of  this  affair  after  the  war, 

*  Related  by  Jeptha  R.  Simms. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  299 

expressed  his  gratitude  that  he  was  prevented  by  his 
friend  from  injuring  the  lad  who  had  stolen  his  gun. 

He  had  also  a  good  heart.  On  one  occasion,  on 
March  i5th,  1784,  the  ice  lodged  in  the  river  near  Mid- 
dleburg  and  overflowed  the  flats  near  his  residence. 
Many  cattle  and  sheep  were  swept  off  in  the  freshet 
and  killed.  In  an  attempt  to  save  the  family  of  John 
Adam  Brown,  a  near  neighbor,  he  waded  into  the  water 
among  the  floating  pieces  of  ice,  and  succeeded  in  bear 
ing  to  a  place  of  safety  his  two  sons ;  but  Brown  him 
self  and  Lana,  his  only  daughter,  then  about  twelve 
years  old,  were,  unfortunately,  in  the  lower  part  of  the 
house  and  were  drowned. 

Many  anecdotes  are  also  told  of  Murphy's  great  skill 
as  a  marksman.  The  two  following  seem  well  authen 
ticated,  and  are  taken  from  Simms's  "  Frontiersmen  of 
New  York  :" 

During  the  winter  of  1781-82  Murphy  killed  quite 
a  number  of  deer  on  the  Schoharie  mountains,  and 
dressed  their  pelts  very  handsomely.  In  the  spring,  to 
break  the  monotony  of  a  camp  life,  he  got  up  a  shoot 
ing  match  at  the  Upper  Fort,  by  way  of  testing  the 
skill  of  his  comrades  in  arms  in  the  sale  of  his  deer 
skins.  He  occasionally  took  a  shot  himself,  and  usu 
ally  won  back  his  property  ;  but  as  some  objected  to 
his  firing,  he  desisted,  as  he  had  been  well  paid  for  it, 
and  whoever  could  bore  off  the  beautiful  buff  leather. 
After  the  skins  were  all  disposed  of,  "  Now,"  says  Mur 
phy,  "  let  us  shoot  for  a  gallon  of  rum."  A  large  white 
oak  tree  was  "  blazed"  near  the  ground,  a  line  drawn 
round  in  the  exposed  wood,  and  in  the  circle  a  small 
piece  of  white  paper  was  fastened  by  a  brass  nail.  The 
distance  fired  was  one  hundred  yards.  Several  close 
shots  had  been  made,  and  it  became  Murphy's  turn  to 
fire.  He  laid  down  on  the  ground  at  full  length,  rest- 


300  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

ing  his  rifle  on  his  hat,  as  others  of  his  competitors  had 
done,  and  after  glancing  over  the  barrel,  he  was  heard 
to  say,  "  Sure,  and  I  believe  I  can  see  that  nail."  Again 
he  sighted  his  piece  ;  it  exploded  and  the  paper  fell. 
An  examination  showed  a  centre  shot  ;  the  ball  had 
driven  the  nail  exactly  in. 

Again,  in  the  fall  of  1799,  four  Schoharie  rifle 
men  of  Revolutionary  days  and  deeds  met  at  the 
residence  of  Captain  Jacob  Hager,  in  Blenheim,  on 
their  return  from  either  a  hunt  or  a  shooting 
match.  Before  separating,  it  was  proposed  to  shoot 
at  a  mark.  A  target  was  made  by  pinning  a  small 
piece  of  white  paper  to  a  board  some  two  feet  long, 
and  the  parties  repaired  to  a  field  a  few  rods  south  of  the 
house.  They  paced  off  one  hundred  yards  from  their 
standing  point,  to  which  the  target  was  taken  by  one  of 
the  four,  who  held  it  between  his  knees  to  receive  the 
bullet  of  a  comrade,  who  in  turn  held  it  for  another,  it 
being  thus,  alternately  held  until  all  had  fired.  Each  of 
the  first  three  shots  cut  the  edge  of  the  paper — that 
of  William  Leek  on  the  right,  that  of  David  Elerson 
on  the  left,  that  of  a  third,  whose  name  is  now  for 
gotten,  on  the  bottom.  Murphy  made  the  last  shot, 
and  the  paper  fell.  On  examination  it  was  found 
that  his  ball  had  driven  the  pin  through  the  board.* 

*  David  Elerson,  mentioned  in  the  text,  and  who 
was  a  private  in  Captain  Long's  company  of  Mor 
gan's  rifle  corps,  and  a  companion  of  Murphy  in  many 
hazardous  enterprises,  related  the  following  anecdote 
to  Mr.  Simms  in  1837:  "Morgan's  riflemen  had 
acquired  much  celebrity  as  marksmen  while  under 
Gates.  When  in  the  vicinity  of  Albany,  on  their 
return  from  the  Northern  army  a  gentleman  near 
whose  residence  they  halted  expressed  a  wish  to 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  301 

In  person  Murphy  was  stout  and  well  made,  with  dark 
complexion,  rather  a  large  body  and  small  limbs,  hand 
some  in  face,  with  jet  black  hair,  and  an  eye  that 
would  kindle  and  flash  like  the  lightning  when 
excited.  He  was  exceedingly  quick  in  all  his  motions, 
and  possessed  an  iron  frame  that  nothing  apparently 
could  affect.  What,  moreover,  is  very  remarkable, 
his  body  was  never  wounded  or  even  scarred  during 
the  whole  war.* 

"It  was  Murphy's  misfortune,"  says  Simms,  "  like 
many  other  master  spirits  of  the  Revolution,  not  to 
have  the  advantages  of  an  early  education,  even  such 
as  our  common  schools  now  afford.  In  fact,  he 
possessed  not  those  elements  of  an  education — the 
art  of  reading  and  writing.  For  this  reason  he 

witness  their  skill.  The  captain  signified  his  will 
ingness  to  gratify  his  curiosity,  and  a  piece  of  paper 
was  fastened  upon  a  small  poplar  tree.  Elerson 
handed  his  rifle — one  of  the  best  in  the  company — to 
John  Gassaway,  who  took  a  surer  aim  than  himself. 
The  rifle  was  levelled  one  hundred  yards  distant  from  the 
mark  and  fired.  The  leaden  messenger  passed  through 
the  paper  and  the  tree,  splitting  the  latter  several 
inches  and  ruining  it.  Said  the  gentleman,  looking 
at  his  crippled  tree,  which  had  been  converted  into 
a  weeping  willow  (it  will  be  remembered  that  fashion 
had  made  the  poplar  a  very  desirable  shade  tree),  *  I 
do  not  wonder  the  Indians  are  afraid  of  Morgan's 
riflemen,  if  that  is  the  way  they  shoot.'  He  then 
treated  the  company  to  liquor,  as  was  the  custom  of 
the  times,  expressed  his  satisfaction  at  their  skill, 
and  the  troops  resumed  their  march." 

*  Communicated  to  the  writer  by  one  who  knows  a 
friend  of  Murphy. 


302  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

declined  accepting  a  proffered  commission,  know 
ing  that  he  would  be  subjected  to  much  inconven 
ience  and  be  liable  to  be  imposed  upon  by  design 
ing  men.  Had  he  been  an  educated  man,  he  might 
have  made  another  Wayne  or  Morgan  ;  but  the  want 
of  the  rudiments  of  an  education  compelled  him  to 
see  others  less  fitted  in  other  respects  than  himself 
occupying  stations  of  profit  and  honor."  At  the 
termination  of  the  Revolutionary  war  he  took  charge 
of  his  father-in-law's  farm.  He  appears  to  have  been 
a  citizen  much  respected  in  his  county,  and  as  a 
father  he  was  indulgent  to  a  fault,  having,  says  Simms, 
been  known  to  bring  home  from  Albany  for  a 
daughter  some  five  or  six  dresses  at  one  time. 

Although  Murphy  could  neither  read  nor  write,  yet 
he  was  a  powerful  stump  speaker,  and  for  many  years 
wielded  powerful  political  influence  in  Schoharie 
County.  He  wras  largely  instrumental  in  bringing  his 
young  friend  and  neighbor,  the  Honorable  William  C. 
Bouck,  into  public  life,  was  zealous  in  obtaining  for 
him  the  appointment  of  sheriff,  and  indirectly  contrib 
uted  to  his  subsequent  election  as  Governor.  Murphy 
died  of  a  cancer  upon  his  neck,  June  27th,  1818,  which 
was  said  by  some  to  have  been  caused  by  his  exposure 
while  attempting  to  rescue  the  Brown  family  in  1784, 
and  by  others,  by  the  recoil  of  his  rifle  on  his  cheek.* 

*The  late  General  Epaphras  Hoyt,  of  Deerfield, 
Mass.,  a  most  accomplished  writer  and  reliable  historian, 
left  at  his  death  a  work  for  publication,  with  maps,  en 
titled  "  Burgoyne's  Campaign."  fie  served  under 
Gates,  and  his  published  letter  on  a  visit  to  the  Saratoga 
battlefields  not  only  corroborates  the  above  incidents 
in  Murphy's  life,  but  is  a  most  valuable  military  critic 
ism  of  those  battles.  We  intend  to  give  this  letter 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  303 

APPENDIX  y, 

LADY   HARRIET   ACLAND. 

Two  shining  examples  of  female  conjugal  devotion 
stand  out  prominently  in  our  Revolutionary  annals — 
the  Baroness  Riedesel  and  Lady  Harriet  Acland. 
The  life  of  the  former  has  been  given  with  accuracy 
in  her  "Letters  and  Journals:"  that  of  the  latter  has 
never  been  narrated  either  with  fulness  or  correctness. 
To  supply  this  defect  is  the  object  of  the  present 
paper. 

Lady  Harriet,  as  she  was  commonly  called,  was  the 
fifth  daughter  of  Stephen,  first  Earl  of  Ilchester,  and 
a  cousin  of  the  celebrated  Charles  James  Fox.  She 
was  born  on  January  3d,  1750.  Her  full  name 
was  Christian  Henrietta  Caroline  Fox  Strangways, 
and  she  was  married  in  September,  17/0,  to  John 
Dyke  Acland,  of  Columb-John,  Devonshire.  Her 
elder  sister  was  the  Lady  Susan  O'Brien — mentioned 
in  "Graydon's  Memoirs"  and  in  the  writer's  "  Life  of 
Sir  William  Johnson" — who  in  June,  1765,  was,  with 
her  husband,  a  recipient  of  the  courtly  hospitality  of 
the  baronet  at  Johnson  Hall.  By  her  marriage  with 
William  O'Brien,  an  actor,  in  the  spring  of  the  previ 
ous  year,  she  had  alienated  her  family,  and  had  conse 
quently  sailed  with  her  husband  for  America,  arriving 
in  New  York  in  April.  Sir  William  Johnson  was 
advised  of  their  arrival  by  her  uncle,  the  first  Lord 
Holland,  who  in  April  wrote  to  him  detailing  the 

in  our  forthcoming  work  on  "  The  Visits  to  the 
Saratoga  Battlefield,"  shortly  to  be  issued  by  Munsell's 
Sons. 


304:  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

circumstances  of  the  marriage,  and  requesting  his 
friendly  offices  for  his  niece,  who  had  "just  emigrated 
to  the  wild  woods  of  America."  From  letters  of 
Lady  Susan  in  the  writer's  possession  it  appears  that 
her  host  and  his  Indian  wife  did  everything  in  their 
power  to  render  their  visit  agreeable,  and  that  the 
baronet  was  equally  at  home  whether  entertaining  the 
rude  savage  or  the  scion  of  a  noble  house.  Molly 
Brant  is  spoken  of  particularly  as  a  "well-bred  and 
pleasant  lady,"  who  in  many  a  ramble  with  her  lady 
ship  proved  a  "  delightful  companion."  Nor  was  this 
kindly  feeling  entirely  one-sided.  So  much  did  his 
high-born  guest  interest  Sir  William  in  her  favor  that 
shortly  after  Lady  Susan  and  her  husband  returned  to 
New  York  he  wrote  a  letter  to  Lord  Holland  begging 
that  the  young  couple  might  be  again  received  into 
the  good  graces  of  his  family — urging,  among  other 
things,  that  O'Brien  seemed  to  be  a  "very  worthy 
young  man,  possessing  in  the  highest  degree  the  affec 
tions  of  his  wife." 

Lady  Harriet  appears  to  have  been  full  as  warm 
hearted  and  romantic  as  her  sister,  and,  .although  her 
affections  did  not  lead  her  into  defying  the  opinions 
of  her  family  and  making  a  runaway  match,  yet  her 
conjugal  love  was  equally  shown  by  her  braving  the 
perils  of  a  long  ocean-voyage  and  enduring  the  trials 
and  hardships  of  a  camp-life  in  an  enemy's  country 
rather  than  be  separated  from  the  husband  of  her 
choice. 

When  Burgoyne  made  up  his  staff  for  his  contem 
plated  campaign  in  America,  he  selected  to  command 
the  grenadiers  Major  Acland,  an  officer  greatly  in  his 
confidence  and  possessing  high  professional  attain 
ments  and  brilliant  courage.  Lady  Harriet,  like  the 
Baroness  Riedesel  refusing  to  allow  her  husband 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  305 

to  brave  the  perils  of  war  alone,  insisted  upon 
accompanying  him  to  Canada,  where  they  arrived  on 
the  last  day  of  June,  1776.  Late  in  the  fall  of  that 
year  the  Major,  leaving  his  wife  in  Montreal,  occupied 
Chambly  with  the  Twentieth  Regiment  of  foot.  Soon 
after  taking  up  his  quarters  in  that  fort  he  fell  danger 
ously  ill;  and  it  was  here,  while  languishing  in  a  miser 
able  log  hut  and  destitute  of  the  commonest  comforts 
of  life,  that  he  was  nursed  back  to  health  by  his  faith 
ful  wife,  who  upon  hearing  of  his  condition,  in  the 
face  of  the  rigors  of  an  unusually  severe  Canadian 
winter  and  of  her  own  precarious  state  of  health,  had 
hurried  on  in  an  open  sled  to  attend  him. 

On  the  opening  of  the  campaign  the  following  year 
the  army  left  its  winter  quarters,  which  it  was  destined 
never  again  to  occupy,  and  pushed  on  to  Ticonderoga. 
Lady  Harriet,  however,  remained  behind  in  Montreal, 
her  husband,  in  view  of  the  certain  hazards  of  the 
approaching  campaign,  positively  refusing  her  permis 
sion  to  be  his  companion.  But  chance  soon  afforded 
this  indomitable  woman  an  opportunity  of  disregard 
ing  his  commands.  In  the  action  of  July  7th,  at 
Hubbardtown,  Major  Acland  was  badly  wounded. 
No  sooner  was  this  known  by  his  wife  when  she  left 
Montreal,  and  having,  by  the  courtesy  of  General 
Carleton,  been  afforded  every  facility  for  passing  up 
Lake  Champlain,  she  rejoined  her  husband  at  Skenes- 
borough  (Whitehall),  whither  he  had  been  conveyed 
after  the  action  of  the  7th.  After  his  recovery,  which 
he  owed  in  all  probability  to  the  careful  nursing  of  his 
wife,  he  had  no  longer  the  heart  to  separate  her  from 
him  ;  and  as  soon  as  the  army  arrived  at  Fort  Edward 
he  obtained  for  her  use  a  two-wheeled  tumbrel  which 
had  been  constructed  by  the  artificers  of  the  artillery 
— a  vehicle  somewhat  similar  to  the  carriages  used  a 


306  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

century  since  for  the  mails  upon  the  great  roads  of 
England.  During  the  day  she  travelled  with  the  bag 
gage-train  in  the  rear  of  the  army,  and  at  night  she 
shared  her  husband's  tent,  which,  as  Major  Acland 
commanded  the  grenadiers,  was  always  the  most 
advanced  post.  Indeed,  it  was  this  latter  circum 
stance  that  just  before  the  army  crossed  the  Hudson 
led  to  an  accident  which  had  nearly  proved  fatal  to 
both  husband  and  wife.  Major  Acland  being  with 
the  advanced  guard,  and  therefore  compelled  to  be 
constantly  on  the  alert,  kept  a  lighted  candle  in  his 
tent  throughout  the  night.  It  chanced,  while  the 
major  and  his  wife  were  asleep,  that  a  favorite  New 
foundland  dog  in  moving  round  upset  the  candle, 
which,  rolling  to  the  side  of  the  tent,  set  it  on  fire. 
Fortunately,  an  orderly  sergeant  who  was  on  guard 
close  by  rushed  in  at  great  risk  to  himself  and  dragged 
out  the  first  person  he  caught  hold  of.  This  proved 
to  be  the  major  himself,  who  in  turn,  fearing  for  his 
wife's  safety,  ran  back  in  search  of  her.  The  latter, 
however,  had  already  made  her  escape  by  creeping 
under  the  walls  of  the  tent  into  the  open  air;  and  the 
faithful  sergeant,  dashing  in  once  more,  again  rescued 
his  officer,  though  not  before  the  latter  had  been 
severely  burned  about  the  face  and  arms.  All  their 
camp-equipage — everything,  in  fact,  except  the  clothes 
in  which  they  had  slept — was  destroyed,  but,  as  Bur 
goyne  remarks,  "  it  altered  neither  the  resolution  nor 
cheerfulness  of  Lady  Harriet,  and  she  continued  her 
progress,  a  partaker  of  the  fatigues  of  the  advanced 
corps."  Nor  was  it  in  her  wifely  devotion  alone  that 
her  humanity  was  shown.  She  was  not  only  the  idol  of 
her  husband,  but,  together  with  the  Baroness  Riedesel, 
elicited  the  admiration  of  the  whole  army.  She  was 
continually  making  little  presents  to  the  officers  and 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  307 

privates  of  her  husband's  corps  whenever  she  had  any 
thing  among  her  stores  that  she  thought  would  gratify 
them.  In  return,  she  received  from  them  every  atten 
tion  which  could  mitigate  the  hardships  she  daily  en 
countered. 

The  next  call  upon  her  fortitude  was  of  a  different 
nature,  and  more  distressing  because  of  longer  sus 
pense.  "On  the  march  of  September  igth,"  writes 
General  Burgoyne,  "  the  grenadiers  being  liable  to 
action  at  every  step,  she  had  been  directed  by  the 
major  to  follow  the  route  of  the  artillery  and  baggage, 
which  was  not  exposed.  At  the  time  the  action  at 
Freeman's  Farm  began  she  found  herself  near  a  small, 
uninhabited  hut,  where  she  alighted.  When  it  was 
found  the  action  was  becoming  general  and  bloody, 
the  surgeons  of  the  hospital  took  possession  of  the 
same  place  as  the  most  convenient  for  the  first  care  of 
the  wounded.  Thus  was  this  lady  within  hearing  of 
one  continued  fire  of  cannon  and  musketry  for  four  hours 
together,  with  the  presumption,  from  the  post  of  her 
husband  at  the  head  of  the  grenadiers,  that  he  was  in 
the  most  exposed  part  of  the  action.  She  had  three 
female  companions — the  Baroness  Riedesel  and  the 
wives  of  two  British  officers,  Major  Harnage  and 
Lieutenant  Reynell — but  in  the  event  their  presence 
served  but  little  for  comfort.  Major  Harnage  was 
soon  brought  to  the  surgeons  very  badly  wounded,  and 
a  little  time  after  came  intelligence  that  Lieutenant 
Reynell  was  shot  dead.  Imagination  will  want  no 
helps  to  figure  the  state  of  the  whole  group." 

In  the  second  battle  of  Saratoga  (October  7th) 
Major  Acland  commanded  the  grenadiers,  who,  after 
maintaining  their  ground  with  the  greatest  and 
most  persistent  valor,  were  finally  forced  to  retreat, 
leaving  the  eminence  on  which  they  had  been 


308  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

stationed  "  a  scene,"  in  the  language  of  Wilkinson, 
"of  complicated  horror  and  exultation."  In  the 
square  space  of  twelve  yards  of  ground  eighteen  grena 
diers  lay  in  the  agonies  of  death,  while  three  officers 
were  propped  up  against  stumps  of  trees,  two  of  them 
mortally  wounded  and  almost  speechless.  While  pur 
suing  the  flying  grenadiers  Wilkinson  heard  a  feeble 
voice  exclaim,  "  Protect  me,  sir,  against  that  boy." 
Turning  his  eyes,  he  saw  a  lad  taking  deliberate  aim 
at  a  wounded  British  officer,  whom  he  at  once  knew  to 
be  Major  Acland.  Wilkinson  dismounted,  and,  taking 
him  by  the  hand,  expressed  the  hope  that  he  was  not 
badly  wounded.  "  Not  badly,"  replied  the  gallant 
officer,  "  but  very  inconveniently,  as  I  am  shot  through 
both  legs.  Will  you,  sir,  have  the  goodness  to  have 
me  conveyed  to  your  camp?"  Wilkinson  at  once 
directed  his  orderly  to  alight,  and,  lilting  the  wounded 
man  into  the  vacant  seat,  had  him  conveyed  to  head 
quarters. 

During  the  battle  Lady  Harriet  was  stationed  in  a 
tent  on  the  river  bank  about  a  mile  to  the  left  of  the 
scene  of  action,  in  full  hearing  of  the  roar  of  the  artil 
lery  arid  surrounded  by  the  wounded  that  from  time 
to  time  were  brought  in,  and  whose  dying  groans  were 
not  calculated  to  diminish  the  agony  of  her  suspense. 
"  My  Lady  Acland,"  writes  the  Baroness  Riedesel  in 
alluding  to  events  at  this  particular  time,  "  occupied  a 
tent  not  far  from  our  house.  In  this  she  slept,  but 
during  the  day  was  in  the  camp.  Suddenly  one  came 
to  tell  her  that  her  husband  was  mortally  wounded 
and  had  been  taken  prisoner.  We  comforted  her  by 
saying  that  it  was  only  a  slight  wound  ;  but  as  no  one 
could  nurse  him  as  well  as  herself,  we  counselled  her 
to  go  at  once  to  him,  to  do  which  she  certainly  could 
obtain  permission.  She  loved  him  very  much,  although 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  309 

he  was  a  plain,  rough  man.  He  was  an  excellent  offi 
cer,  and  she  the  most  lovely  (alter liebste)  of  all 
women,  I  spent  the  night  in  this  manner,  at  one 
time  comforting  her,  and  at  another  looking  after  my 
children,  whom  I  had  put  to  bed."  "  You  can  natu 
rally  conceive,"  writes  Lieutenant  Aubrey  at  this  time, 
"what  were  the  feelings  of  Lady  Harriet — having 
every  apprehension  not  only  for  her  husband,  but  for 
her  brother* — who,  after  hearing  the  whole  of  the 
action,  at  last  received  the  shock  of  her  individual 
misfortune,  mixed  with  the  general  calamity  of  the  de 
feat." 

The  day  after  the  battle  was  passed  by  Lady  Harriet 
and  her  companions,  the  Baroness  Riedesel  and  the 
wives  of  the  other  officers,  among  the  wounded  and 
dying,  since  not  a  tent  or  a  shed  was  standing  except 
what  belonged  to  the  hospital.  Her  suspense,  more 
over,  was  rendered  the  greater  from  the  fact  that  no 
tidings  had  been  received  from  her  husband  since  the 
first  announcement  of  his  capture.  Her  unhappiness 
would  have  been  increased  had  she  known  that  the 
British  had  that  very  day  refused  a  flag  under  cover  of 
which  General  Wilkinson,  with  his  usual  gallantry  tow 
ard  the  fair  sex,  attempted  at  every  part  of  the  line  to 
convey  a  letter  to  her  from  her  husband,  then  in  Gates's 
camp. 

Meanwhile,  Burgoyne,  having  scrupulously  fulfilled 
the  dying  wish  of  his  loved  companion-in-arms,  the 

*  Hon.  Stephen  Digby  Strangways — the  brother  of 
Lady  Acland  mentioned  in  the  text — was  a  captain  in 
the  Twenty-fourth  Regiment  of  foot,  and  upon  the 
promotion  of  Captain  William  Agnew  to  the  majority 
of  the  regiment  (July  i4th,  1777)  became  its  senior 
captain. 


310  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

chivalric  Eraser,  began  his  retreat  on  the  evening  of  the 
8th  in  the  midst  of  a  pouring  rain,  and  two  hours  before 
daybreak  of  the  Qth  arrived  at  Dovegat,  where  he  halted. 
During  the  halt  at  Dovegat*  there  occurred  one  of 
those  incidents  which  relieve  with  fairer  lights  and 
softer  tints  the  gloomy  picture  of  war.  The  circum 
stances  which  led  to  this  incident  are  thus  given  by  the 
Baroness  Riedesel :  "  During  this  halt  it  rained  in  tor 
rents.  My  Lady  Acland  had  her  tent  set  up.  I  ad 
vised  her  once  more  to  betake  herself  to  her  husband, 
as  she  could  be  so  useful  to  him  in  his  present  situation. 
Finally,  she  yielded  to  my  solicitations,  and  sent  a  mes 
sage  to  General  Burgoyne,  through  his  adjutant,  my 
Lord  Patterson  [Petersham],  begging  permission  to 
have  the  camp ;  I  told  her  she  should  insist  on  it  ; 
which  she  did,  and  finally  obtained  his  consent.  .  .  . 
I  saw  her  again  afterward  in  Albany,  at  which  time 
her  husband  was  almost  entirely  recovered,  and  both 
thanked  me  heartily  for  my  advice."  This  case  of  pri 
vate  distress,  if  we  may  believe  Aubrey,  greatly  increased 
the  cares  and  anxieties  with  which  Burgoyne  was  at 
this  time  surrounded.  Regarding,  however,  the  man 
ner  in  which  that  general  received  Lady  Acland's 
request  no  doubt  can  be  entertained.  "When  the 
army,"  he  writes,  "  was  on  the  point  of  moving  after 

*  Within  the  last  year  (1893),  this  "  Dovegat  House" 
has  been  torn  down ;  almost  the  last  existing  land 
mark  of  "  Burgoyne's  Campaign."  It  is  very  sad  to 
think  that  then  is  not  enough  patriotism  among  the 
American  people  to  prevent  such  an  act  of  vandalism  ; 
but  so  it  goes!  Indeed  it  is  shameful  that  New  York 
State  should  not  have  prevented  this  by  buying  it, 
even  if  the  State  should  have  had  to  surround  it  with 
a  wall  of  glass  ! 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  311 

the  halt  described,  I  received  a  message  from  Lady 
Harriet  submitting  to  my  decision  a  proposal  (and  ex 
pressing  an  earnest  solicitude  to  execute  it  if  not  inter 
fering  with  my  designs)  of  passing  to  the  camp  of  the 
enemy  and  requesting  General  Gates's  'permission  to 
attend  her  husband.  Though  I  was  ready  to  believe 
(for  I  had  experienced)  that  patience  and  fortitude  in 
a  supreme  degree  were  to  be  found,  as  well  as  every 
other  virtue,  under  the  most  tender  forms,  I  was  aston 
ished  at  this  proposal.  After  so  long  an  agitation  of 
spirits,  exhausted  not  only  by  want  of  rest,  but  abso 
lutely  by  want  of  food,  drenched  in  rains  for  twelve 
hours  together,  that  a  woman  should  be  capable  of 
such  an  undertaking  as  delivering  herself  to  the  enemy, 
probably  in  the  night  and  uncertain  of  what  hands  she 
might  first  fall  into,  appeared  an  effort  above  human 
nature.  The  assistance  I  was  enabled  to  give  was 
small  indeed.  I  had  not  even  a  cup  of  wine  to  offer 
her,  but  I  was  told  she  had  found  from  some  kind  and 
fortunate  hand  a  little  rum  and  dirty  water.  All  I 
could  furnish  to  her  was  an  open  boat  and  a  few  lines, 
written  upon  dirty  wet  paper,  to  General  Gates,  recom 
mending  her  to  his  protection. 

"  Let  such,"  continues  Burgoyne,  "  as  are  affected  by 
these  circumstances  of  alarm,  hardship,  and  danger 
recollect  that  the  subject  of  them  was.  a  woman — of 
the  most  tender  and  delicate  form,  of  the  gentlest  man 
ners,  habituated  to  all  the  soft  elegancies  and  refined 
enjoyments  that  attend  high  birth  and  fortune,  and  far 
advanced  in  a  state  in  which  the  tender  cares  always  due 
to  the  sex  become  indispensably  necessary.  Her  mind 
alone  was  formed  for  such  trials." 

The  letter  given  her  by  Burgoyne,  and  now  among 
the  "  Gates  Papers"  in  the  New  York  Historical  So 
ciety,  reads  as  follows  : 


312  The  Bur  (joy  ne  Ballads. 

"  SIR  :  Lady  Harriet  Acland,  a  lady  of  the  first  dis 
tinction  of  family  rank  and  personal  virtues,  is  under 
such  concern  on  account  of  Major  Acland,  her  hus 
band,  wounded  and  a  prisoner  in  your  hands,  that  I 
cannot  refuse  her  request  to  commit  her  to  your  pro 
tection.  Whatever  general  impropriety  there  may  be 
in  persons  of  my  situation  and  yours  to  solicit  favors, 
I  cannot  see  the  uncommon  perseverance  in  every 
female  grace  and  exaltation  of  character  of  this  lady, 
and  her  very  hard  fortune,  without  testifying  that  your 
attentions  to  her  will  lay  me  under  obligation. 
"  I  am,  sir,  your  obedient  servant, 

"J.  BURGOYNE." 

As  an  additional  protection,  another  letter  was  also 
furnished  by  Burgoyne's  deputy  adjutant-general,  Rob 
ert  Kingston.  This  letter — likewise  preserved  among 
the  "  Gates  Papers" — was  written  in  the  open  air,  in 
the  midst  of  a  pouring  rain,  as  is  evident  from  the 
stains  of  the  water-splashes  with  which  the  paper  is 
thickly  sprinkled,  and  is  as  follows : 

"  October  Qth,  1777. 

"The  Revd  Mr.  Brudenel,  chaplain  to  the  staff,  ac 
companies  Lady  Harriet  Acland  as  a  protection  till 
she  arrives  at  Mr  Gen1  Gates's  quarters. 

44  His  Excellency,  Lieut.-Gen1  Burgoyne,  makes  no 
doubt  he  will  be  treated  with  every  regard  due  to  his 
character,  and  allowed  to  return  the  first  convenient 
opportunity. 

"  RT  KINGSTON,  D.  Adf-Gen1. 
"  To  MR  GENL  GATES." 

In  the  midst  of  a  driving  autumnal  storm,  and  with 
nothing  but  a  little  spirits  and  water,  obtained  from  the 
wife  of  a  soldier,  to  sustain  her,  Lady  Harriet  set  out 
at  dusk  in  an  open  boat  for  the  American  camp.  She 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  313 

was  accompanied  by  Rev.  Edward  Brudenel,  by  Han 
nah  Degraw,  her  waiting-maid,  and  by  her  husband's 
valet,  who  had  been  wounded  in  the  shoulder  while 
searching  for  his  master  upon  the  battlefield.  Another 
of  her  companions  was  Mr.  George  Williams,  a  young 
gentleman  from  Newfoundland,  who  in  after  years  be 
came  a  colonel  in  the  army  and  the  first  member 
of  Parliament  for  Ashton-under-Lyne.  He  survived 
until  December,  1850 — the  very  last,  in  all  probability, 
of  Burgoyne's  army.  At  ten  o'clock  they  reached  the 
American  advanced  guard,  under  the  command  of 
Major  Henry  Dearborn.  Lady  Harriet  herself  hailed 
the  sentinel,  and  as  soon  as  the  guard,  apprehensive  of 
treachery,  had  very  properly  communicated  with  Major 
Dearborn,  the  bateau  was  allowed  to  land.  This  delay 
was  only  momentary,  and  not  "seven  or  eight  dark 
and  cold  hours,"  as  stated  by  Burgoyne  in  his  "  State 
of  the  Expedition."  Upon  landing,  the  party,  carry 
ing  with  them  their  bedding  and  other  necessaries, 
were  immediately  guided  to  the  log  cabin  of  Dearborn, 
who  had  been  ordered  to  detain  the  flag  until  morning, 
the  night  being  exceedingly  dark  and  the  quality  of 
the  lady  unknown.  Major  Dearborn  gallantly  gave 
up  his  room  to  his  fair  guest,  a  fire  was  kindled,  a  cup 
of  hot  tea  provided,  and  as  soon  as  Lady  Harriet  had 
made  herself  known  her  mind  was  relieved  of  its  anx 
iety  by  the  assurance  of  her  husband's  safety.  "  I  vis 
ited,"  says  Adjutant-General  Wilkinson,  "the  guard 
before  sunrise.  Lady  Acland's  boat  had  put  off,  and 
was  floating  down  the  stream  to  our  camp,  where  Gen 
eral  Gates,  whose  gallantry  will  not  be  denied,  stood 
ready  to  receive  her  with  all  the  tenderness  and  respect 
to  which  her  rank  and  condition  gave  her  a  claim. 
Indeed,  the  feminine  figure,  the  benign  aspect,  and 
polished  manners  of  this  charming  woman  were  alone 


314  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

sufficient  to  attract  the  sympathy  of  the  most  obdu 
rate  ;  hut  if  another  motive  could  have  been  want 
ing  to  inspire  respect,  it  was  furnished  by  the  peculiar 
circumstances  of  Lady  Harriet,  then  in  that  most  deli 
cate  situation  which  cannot  fail  to  interest  the  solicitude 
of  every  being  possessing  the  form  and  feelings  of  a 
man.  It  was  therefore  the  foulest  injustice  to  brand 
an  American  officer  [Major  Dearborn]  with  the  failure 
of  courtesy  where  it  was  so  highly  merited." 

But  while  General  Gates  was  disposed  to,  and  did, 
accord  to  Lady  Harriet  a  most  courteous  and  hearty 
welcome,  both  for  her  own  sake  and  the  amenities  of 
military  etiquette,  he  was  not  willing  that,  as  between 
himself  and  the  British  commander,  these  courtesies 
should  be  all  on  one  side.  Justly  indignant  at  the  in 
excusable  conduct  of  Burgoyne  during  his  retreat,  he 
sent  him  the  following  polite  yet  caustic  reply  to  the 
letter  brought  by  Lady  Harriet : 

"  SARATOGA,  October  i2th,  1777. 

"  SIR  :  I  had  the  honor  to  receive  Your  Excellency's 
letter  by  Lady  Acland.  The  respect  due  to  her  lady 
ship's  rank,  the  tenderness  due  to  her  person  and  sex, 
were  alone  sufficient  recommendations  to  entitle  her  to 
my  protection  ;  and,  considering  my  preceding  con 
duct  with  respect  to  those  of  your  army  whom  the 
fortune  of  war  has  placed  in  my  hands,  I  am  surprised 
Your  Excellency  should  think  that  I  could  consider 
the  greatest  attention  to  Lady  Acland  in  the  light  of 
an  obligation. 

"  The  cruelties  which  marked  the  retreat  of  your 
army  in  burning  the  gentlemen's  and  farmers'  houses 
as  it  passed  along  is  almost,  among  civilized  nations, 
without  precedent :  they  should  not  endeavor  to  ruin 
those  they  could  not  conquer ;  their  conduct  betrays 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  315 

more  of  the  vindictive  malice  of  the  monk  than   the 
generosity  of  the  soldier. 

"Your  friend,  Sir  Francis  Clerke,  by  the  imforma- 
tion  of  Dr.  Potts,  the  director-general  of  my  hospital, 
languishes  under  a  very  dangerous  wound  ;  every  sort  of 
tenderness  and  attention  is  paid  to  him,  as  well  as  to 
all  the  wounded  who  have  fallen  into  my  hands,  and 
the  hospital  which  you  were  necessitated  to  leave  to 
my  mercy.  .  .  . 

"  I  am,  sir,  etc., 

"  HORATIO  GATES. 

"  GENERAL  BURGOYNE." 

Lady  Harriet  tarried  a  few  days  in  the  American 
camp,  during  which  time  "  she  was  treated  by  General 
Gates,"  writes  Dr.  Thacher,  "  with  the  tenderness  of  a 
parent ;"  and  then,  under  the  escort  of  that  general,  she 
rejoined  her  husband  in  Albany,  whither  he  had  been 
conveyed  the  day  after  the  action  of  the  7th.  In  a 
letter  written  at  this  time  to  his  wife  General  Gates 
thus  speaks  of  his  distinguished  prisoners  and  guests  : 
"  I  hope  Lady  Acland  will  be  here  when  you  arrive. 
She  is  the  most  amiable,  delicate  piece  of  quality  you 
ever  beheld.  Her  husband  is  one  of  the  prettiest 
fellows  I  have  seen — learned,  sensible  and  an  English, 
man  to  all  intents  and  purposes  ;  has  been  a  most  con 
founded  Tory,  but  I  hope  to  make  him  as  good  a 
Whig  as  myself  before  we  separate." 

After  remaining  in  Albany  until  her  husband's 
wounds  were  healed,  Lady  Harriet  accompanied  him 
to  New  York ;  and  while  in  that  city  on  his  parole, 
before  returning  to  England,  the  major  reciprocated 
the  kindness  shown  to  his  wife  by  doing  all  in  his 
power  to  mitigate  the  sufferings  of  the  American 
prisoners. 


316  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Hitherto,  Lady  Harriet's  life,  after  her  return  to 
England,  has  been  little  known,  and  that  little  very 
incorrectly  stated.  It  has  been  published  as  veracious 
history  that  shortly  after  the  arrival  of  her  husband  and 
herself  in  England  the  former  became  involved  in  an 
altercation  with  a  Lieutenant  Lloyd,  a  brother-officer, 
in  which  he  defended  the  Americans  against  the  as 
persion  of  cowardice ;  that  a  duel  followed,  which 
resulted  in  the  death  of  Major  Acland,  who  fell  at  the 
first  fire ;  and  that  Lady  Harriet  thereupon  became 
insane,  remained  so  for  two  years,  and  finally  married 
Chaplain  Brudenel.  Wilkinson  appears  to  have 
first  given  currency  to  this  story,  and  he  has  since 
been  followed  by  Mrs.  Ellet,  Mr.  Lossing,  Fonblanque 
in  his  "  Life  of  Burgoyne,"  myself  in  the  "  Campaign  of 
Burgoyne,"  and,  in  fact,  by  all  who  have  written  on 
this  subject.  Even  Miss  Warburton,  in  a  letter  to 
her  nephew,  the  late  Sir  John  Burgoyne  (Fonblanque, 
p.  301),  relates  substantially  the  same  story,  varying 
the  narrative,  however,  by  stating  that  the  duel  was 
fought  with  swords  and  that  Acland,  in  "  making  a 
pass  at  his  adversary,  slipped  on  a  pebble,  struck  his 
temple  upon  it  in  falling,  and  instantly  expired." 

Being  desirous  of  ascertaining  what  the  truth  really 
was,  I  recently  wrote  to  Sir  Thomas  Dyke  Acland,  of 
Exeter,  England,,  whose  father  was  an  own  nephew  of 
Major  Acland,  asking  what  were  the  real  facts  of  the 
case.  He  with  great  courtesy  replied  at  once,  stating 
that  all  the  generally  received  statements  regarding 
his  aunt's  and  uncle's  last  days  were  without  the  least 
foundation  ;  that  Major  Acland  died  in  his  bed  of  a 
cold  shortly  after  his  return  to  England  ;  and,  further, 
that  Lady  Harriet  remained  a  widow  until  her  death, 
at  Tetton,  on  July  2ist,  1815.  In  corroboration 
of  this  latter  statement,  Sir  Thomas  Acland  enclosed 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  317 

me  a  copy  of  the  burial-register  of  the  parish  where 
Lady  Harriet  lies,  in  which  she  is  called  "  The  Right 
Hon.  Lady  Harriet  Acland,  widow." 

In  person  Lady  Harriet  was  highly  graceful  and 
delicate  ;  her  manners  were  elegantly  feminine,  her 
outward  personal  charms  being  in  harmony  with  those 
of  her  mind.*  While  wrapped  up  in  the  care  of  her 
children,  hers  was  not  a  selfish  devotion  which  would 
shut  out  all  sympathy  for  others  and  forbid  appreciation 
of  those  with  whom  she  had  been  united  in  ties  of  in 
terest  and  affection,  whether  in  high  or  low  station. 
There  is  yet  standing  in  a  quaint  little  churchyard  in 
Beckenham,  Kent,  with  a  solitary  yew  tree  watching 
over  it  like  a  faithful  sentinel,  a  moss-grown  slab  bear 
ing  this  inscription :  "  To  the  memory  of  Hannah 
Degraw,born  at  New  York  i8th  May,  1742.  Erected 
by  Lady  Acland  in  grateful  remembrance  of  thirty-six 
years'  services." 

On  Lady  Harriet's  return  to  England  she  was,  for  a 
time,  the  cynosure  of  all  eyes.  Mrs.  Perez  Newton 
commemorated  her  sufferings  in  a  touching  poem ; 
and  before  she  left  New  York  a  portrait  of  her  lady 
ship,  standing  in  a  boat  with  a  white  handkerchief  in 
her  hand,  as  a  flag  of  truce,  was  exhibited  at  the  Royal 
Academy,  London.  An  engraving  from  this  picture 
was  extensively  circulated  in  Europe  and  America  ; 
and  long  after  the  incident  to  which  it  gave  rise  had 
faded  from  public  remembrance,  she  herself  continued 

'  The  picture  of  Lady  Acland,  one  of  the  alto  rilievos 
in  the  Saratoga  monument,  is  a  correct  likeness  of  that 
lady,  having  been  taken  from  a  photograph  of  a  paint 
ing  of  her  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds.  This  photograph 
was  taken  and  very  kindly  sent  me  by  the  late  Lord 
Carnarvon,  a  grandnephew  of  Lady  Acland. 


318  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

to  '^be  regarded  with  a  respect  and  tenderness  rarely 
accorded  even  to  one  of  her  sex.  But  to  her  the 
scenes  through  which  she  had  passed  were  ever  vivid  ; 
and,  as  the  widow  of  General  Montgomery — who  for 
forty  years  had  remained  faithful  to  the  memory  of 
her  "  soldier,"  as  she  always  called  him — swooned  away 
as  the  steamboat  passed  her  mansion  on  the  North 
River  bearing  the  body  of  her  husband  to  its  final 
resting-place  beneath  St.  Paul's,  so  Lady  Harriet 
Acland,  though  surviving  her  "  soldier"  thirty-seven 
years,  could  never  hear  an  allusion  to  him  without 
tears.  "^Attached  to  her  husband  as  she  was,"  writes 
Miss  Warburton,  "  having  suffered  so  much  for  his  sake, 
and  having,  as  she  supposed,  brought  him  home  to 
safety,  and  a  life  of  future  happiness,  to  have  all  this 
cheering  prospect  dashed  by  his  death  was,  one  would 
have  thought,  more  than  human  nature  could  support 
or  sustain.  But  she  had  a  mind  superior  to  every  trial, 
and  even  this,  her  severest  affliction,  she  bore  up 
under  with  resignation  and  fortitude.  I  saw  her  again 
many  years  afterward,  when  her  sorrows  had  been 
somewhat  tempered  by  time.  She  was  still  handsome, 
but  her  bloom  and  vivacity  were  gone.  I  placed 
myself  where  I  could  unobserved  contemplate  the 
change  she  had  undergone  since  I  had  first  seen 
her.  Her  countenance  was  mild  and  placid,  but  there 
was  a  look  of  tender  melancholy  mingled  with  resig 
nation  that  made  her  the  most  interesting  object  I  had 
ever  beheld." 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  319 


APPENDIX  VI, 

LAST    DAYS   OF   JONES,  THE  LOVER  OF 
JANE  McCREA. 

A  SCRAP  OF  UNWRITTEN  HISTORY. 

[This  story  is  told  by  Julia  C.  Smalley  in  the  Catholic  World 'for  December, 

1882.] 

IN  the  course  of  an  evening  conversation  with  the 
cheerful  circle  in  which  our  easy-chair  is  permitted 
for  the  present  to  fill  the  privileged  place  accorded 
to  its  invalid  occupant,  we  fell  to  relating  incidents 
connected  with  the  early  history  of  our  republic. 
An  aged  member  of  that  circle  sat  diligently  plying 
her  knitting  needles,  a  silent  listener  to  our  chat, 
instead  of  supplying  the  share  which  we  knew  full 
well  she  could  have  drawn  from  her  own  knowledge 
of  many  interesting  events  of  that  period,  at  the  time 
of  their  occurrence  or  soon  after.  She  was,  therefore, 
very  warmly  urged  by  the  younger  part  of  the  com 
pany  to  "tell  us  a  story,"  even  though  it  might  prove, 
as  she  hinted,  but  a  "  twice-told  tale"  to  some  of  her 
listeners. 

It  so  happened  that  she  had  on  that  day  taken  up  a 
stray  number  of  Lossing's  "  Pictorial  Field-Book  of  the 
Revolution,"  and  while  glancing  drowsily  over  its  pages 
her  eye  was  attracted  by  his  account  of  the  tragical 
death  of  Jane  McCrea,  near  Fort  Edward,  on  the 
Hudson  River,  in  July,  1777.  Having  frequently  in 
former  years  visited  an  aged  relative  who  lived  in 
Bennington,  Vt.,  through  the  war  of  the  Revolu 
tion,  and  who  was  well  acquainted  with  the  unfortu 
nate  girl,  and  with  the  Mrs.  McNeil  whom  Miss 


320  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

McCrea  was  visiting  at  the  time  of  the  sad  event,  she 
had  heard  the  painful  story  in  all  its  mournful  details 
from  the  lips  of  that  relative,  with  the  shuddering  hor 
ror  and  tearful  sympathy  which  it  would  naturally 
awaken  in  a  sensitive  young  heart. 

At  the  close  of  his  narration  Lossing  remarks  that 
there  were  various  accounts  in  the  vicinity  of  Fort 
Edward  as  to  the  subsequent  fate  of  Lieutenant  Jones 
of  the  British  army,  to  whom  Jane  McCrea  was 
engaged ;  and  that  he  heard,  from  a  lady  at  Glens 
Falls  who  was  related  to  the  Jones  family,  that  he 
lived  with  his  friends  in  Canada  many  years  after  the 
terrible  event — a  melancholy  and  lonely  man. 

It  is  curious  to  note  how  some  such  trivial  cause  as 
this  renewal  of  her  acquaintance  with  that  sad  story 
will  often  impel  an  old  person  to  rake  up  the  dying 
embers  of  the  past  and  draw  from  them  living  sparks 
which  had  long  been  smouldering  beneath  their  dust. 
It  was  thus  with  our  serene  old  friend  as  she  closed 
the  book  that  afternoon  and  settled  back  in  her  "  old 
arm-chair,"  musing  upon  the  narrative  and  recalling 
scenes  of  her  early  life  which  she  had  not  thought 
upon  for  years.  Hence  it  followed,  of  course,  when 
our  evening  chat  dipped  into  history,  and  she  was 
urged  to  bear  her  part  in  it,  that  she  should  recur 
to  the  subject  of  her  late  reading  and  revery,  and 
to  the  fact  that  she  knew  more  of  the  later  life  of 
Lieutenant  David  Jones  than  was  recorded  by  Los- 
sing.  "  For,"  said  she,  "  all  the  early  years  of  my  life, 
with  the  exception  of  occasional  visits  to  friends  in 
Vermont,  were  passed  on  the  American  shore  of  the 
St.  Lawrence.  It  was  then  a  wilderness  from  Sack- 
ett's  Harbor  to  the  '  Rapids/  only  broken  by  the 
little  village  of  Ogdensburg,  just  starting  into  exist 
ence,  and  by  small  openings  made  here  and  there  by 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  321 

such  hardy  pioneers  as  dared  encroach  within  its  for 
bidding  boundaries. 

"  Schools  there  were  none  up  or  down  the  river 
from  Ogdensburg,  and  the  children  of  the  '  settlers' 
had  no  means  for  instruction,  unless  taught  at  home 
or  sent  across  the  river  to  attend  schools  already  estab 
lished  in  the  older  settlements  on  the  Canadian  shore. 

"  No  sooner  had  my  father  taken  up  a  large  tract  of 
land  and  planted  our  pleasant  home  in  this  wilderness 
—indeed,  before  we  had  been  there  long  enough 
to  get  it  reduced  to  a  tolerable  state  of  order  we  were 
visited  by  the  residents  of  that  shore  up  and  down  the 
river,  and  afterward  formed  many  permanent  friend 
ships  with  them,  among  the  most  highly  valued  of 
which  were  members  of  the  Jones  family.  So  it 
befel  that  when  I  was  old  enough  to  be  sent  away  to 
school  I  was  admitted  into  one  of  those  families 
more  as  a  household  pet  than  a  boarder,  and  was 
cordially  invited  to  range  freely  through  the  whole 
circle.  As  every  separate  family  was  blessed  with 
daughters  near  my  own  age,  I  was  decidedly  *  in 
clover'  among  them — clover  the  luxury  of  which  for 
me,  who  had  no  sister  or  young  companions  at  home, 
save  the  little  squaws  from  a  neighboring  Indian 
encampment,  cannot  possibly  be  conceived  by  any 
small  lassie  who  lives  amid  abounding  youthful  com 
panionship.  I  revelled  in  it.  Such  parties  as  were 
given  weekly  at  one  and  another  house  !  Such  multi 
tudes  of  dolls  as  went  with  us  in  every  variety  of  cos 
tume  ;  among  which  my  own,  large  and  small,  figured, 
copper-colored  and  in  full  Indian  dress,  with  hair 
banged  according  to  the  most  approved  aboriginal 
style — which  has  been  adopted  by  our  modern  fine 
ladies — and  was  necessary  to  the  completion  of  the 
Indian  toilet  that  I  took  pride  in  arranging  for  them 


322  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

in  honor  of  my  special  pets,  \hz  papooses  of  the  wig 
wams. 

u  Among  the  young  girls  of  the  Jones  connection 
was  one  to  whom  I  was  particularly  attracted,  as  she 
was  to  me,  by  the  similarity  of  our  positions.  Her 
father  lived  in  a  remote  district,  and  her  home  was 
almost  as  isolated  as  my  own,  while  she  was  with  their 
relatives  for  the  same  purpose  as  myself.  At  the  close 
of  each  term  of  our  school  she  was,  as  well  as  myself, 
carried  home  to  pass  the  short  interval  between  the 
terms.  On  one  of  these  occasions  she  was  so  urgent  in 
her  entreaties  that  I  might  be  permitted  to  go  with 
her  for  the  vacation  that  my  father  consented,  much  to 
my  satisfaction,  and  we  set  forth  in  great  glee.  Our 
journey  was  very  delightful,  through  a  wild  and  roman 
tic  region,  and  I  received  a  most  cordial  welcome  from 
her  family  at  its  close. 

"  The  house  was  more  elaborate  in  style  and  furni 
ture  than  our  home  so  recently  founded  in  the  woods. 
A  portion  of  it  was  built  by  her  grandfather  many  years 
before,  and  extensive  modern  additions  had  been  made 
by  her  father.  Her  grandfather  died  the  previous 
year,  and  his  brother,  a  very  venerable  old  gentleman 
with  hair  as  white  as  snow,  lived  in  the  family.  I  was 
deeply  impressed  by  the  countenance  and  manner  of 
this  granduncle  of  my  friend.  An  expression  of  un 
utterable  sadness  was  stamped  upon  his  noble  features, 
and  a  gentle  dignity — benign  to  the  verge  of  pity- 
marked  his  whole  bearing,  even  to  the  softened  tones 
of  his  manly  voice,  especially  when  addressing  the 
young  in  the  few  slowly  uttered  but  impressive  words 
which  he  seldom  exceeded  when  speaking  to  them. 
He  was  very  fond  of  his  grandniece,  and,  silent  and 
reserved  as  he  was  with  others,  he  never  tired  of  listen 
ing  to  her  sprightly  prattle. 


The  Biwgoyne  Ballads.  323 

"  As  soon  as  I  found  a  proper  occasion  I  plied  her 
with  questions  as  to  this  interesting  relative,  whom  she 
had  never  mentioned  when  telling  me  about  her  family. 
She  seemed  slightly  constrained  when  speaking  of  him, 
but  told  me  he  was  a  bachelor,  and  that  he  met  with  a 
crushing  affliction  in  his  youth,  from  which  he  never 
recovered.     With  all  the  eager  pertinacity  natural  to 
small    daughters   of   Eve  I  drew  from  this  reluctant 
witness  that  her  grandfather,  Captain  Jonathan  Jones, 
and    this   gentleman,  his  brother — Lieutenant  David 
Jones — were  officers  in  Burgoyne's  army  during  the 
first  years  of  the  Revolution  ;  that  the  lieutenant  was 
engaged  to  a  beautiful  young  lady,  whose  brother  was 
a  stanch  supporter  of  the  American  cause  and  opposed 
to  her  union  with  the  Tory  officer,  and  that  she  was 
killed   and  scalped  by  the  Indians  while  going  with  a 
friend   and   escort   to  meet  that  officer  in  the  British 
camp  at  Sandy  Hill,  not  long  before  the  surrender  of 
Burgoyne.     He  was  so  crushed  by  the  terrible  blow, 
and  disgusted  with  the  apathy  of  Burgoyne  in  refusing 
to  punish  the  miscreant  who  brought  her  scalp  to  the 
camp  as  a  trophy,  claiming  the  bounty  offered  for  such 
prizes    by  the    British    commanders,  that  he  and  his 
brother  asked  for  a  discharge  and  were  refused,  when 
they  deserted — he   having  first  rescued   the  precious 
relic  of  his  beloved  from  the  savages — and  retired  to 
this    Canadian  wilderness,  which   he  had  never  been 
known  to  leave  except  upon  one  mysterious  occasion 
many  years  before. 

u  She  did  not  know  the  name  of  the  lady  so  long 
and  faithfully  mourned,  but  when  I  asked  her  if  this 
tragedy  did  not  occur  near  Fort  Edward,  on  the  Hud 
son,  she  remembered  to  have  heard  that  place  men 
tioned  in  connection  with  it.  She  said  they  were  all 
forbidden  to  speak  in  his  presence  of  American  affairs 


324  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

or  history,  but  she  had  once  persuaded  him  to  let  her 
see  the  mournful  relic  so  precious  to  him.  She 
described  the  hair  as  the  most  beautiful  she  had  ever 
seen,  light  auburn  in  color,  soft  and  glossy  as  silk,  per 
fectly  even,  and  a  yard  and  a  quarter  in  length. 

"  '  Well,  my  dear  A ,'  said  I,  '  it  so  happens  that 

I  know  more  about  this  sad  affair  than  even  yourself, 
who  have  always  lived  in  the  house  with  him.  When 
my  father  and  mother  used  to  visit  his  oldest  sister  in 
Bennington,  Vt.,  they  took  me  with  them  at  her 
special  request ;  for,  being  the  only  daughter  of  her 
favorite  brother,  she  always  treated  me  with  more 
tender  affection  than  she  showed  toward  her  other 
nieces.  Her  house,  which  she  had  long  known  and 
occupied,  was  one  where  the  officers  quartered  at  the 
time  of  the  battle  of  Bennington,  and  I  remember  the 
speechless  awe  with  which  I  was  wont  to  con  over  and 
spell  out  the  names  of  those  officers,  recorded  by  them 
selves,  on  the  eve  of  the  battle,  upon  a  pane  of  glass  in 
the  window  with  the  diamond  in  a  ring  belonging  to 
one  of  their  number,  who  was  killed  in  the  conflict  of 
the  next  day. 

" '  My  aunt's  memory  was  a  storehouse  of  tales  of 
those  times,  and  I  never  tired  of  listening  to  them. 
No  sooner  was  one  finished  than  I  teased  for  another, 
until  I  am  sure  the  patience  of  the  good  dame  must 
have  been  sorely  tried.  She  knew  this  young  lady, 
whose  name  was  Jane  McCrea,  and  also  Mrs.  McNeil, 
the  Tory  friend  whom  Miss  McCrea  was  visiting  at  the 
time  of  their  capture  by  the  Indians.  I  little  thought 
when  I  cried  over  the  doleful  story  that  the  lover  was 
still  living,  much  less  that  I  should  ever  see  him  !' 

"  A — — did  not  dare  repeat  to  her  venerable  relative 
what  I  had  told  her,  but  she  ventured  to  beg  that  I 
might  be  allowed  to  see  the  beautiful  hair  of  his  lost 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  325 

love.  He  was  deaf  to  her  entreaties,  assuring  her  that 
she  was  the  only  one  who  had  or  would  see  it  while  he 
lived,  and  that  he  wished  to  have  it  buried  with  him 
when  he  died. 

"  After  our  return  to  school  I  drew  from  her  some 
facts  in  relation  to  the  mysterious  journey  she  had  men 
tioned  his  having  once  taken.  '  I  do  not  know  much 
about  it,'  she  said.  '  I  heard  it  from  an  old  servant- 
woman  of  the  family,  who  told  me  that  many  years 
before  I  was  born  a  stranger  came  there  one  evening, 
who  appeared  to  be  a  gentleman's  valet.  He  brought 
a  fine-looking,  intelligent  young  boy  with  him,  and 
inquired  for  my  grandfather,  Captain  Jonathan  Jones.' 

"The  substance  of  my  friend's  account  was  that, 
after  an  interview  of  some  length  with  her  grandfather, 
his  brother,  the  lieutenant,  was  called  in,  and  the  three 
were  together  in  the  library  during  most  of  the  night, 
discussing  some  very  interesting  matter  connected  with 
the  boy.  The  butler  had  been  ordered  to  prepare  re 
freshments  in  the  dining-room,  and  Robert,  one  of  the 
waiter-boys — an  urchin  gifted  with  a  larger  amount  of 
mischief  and  curiosity  than  his  small  frame  could  pos 
sibly  enclose,  insomuch  that  they  were  continually  over 
flowing,  to  the  annoyance  of  the  whole  household — was 
directed  to  remain  within  call  to  serve  them  when  re 
quired.  It  was  not  in  the  nature  of  this  valet  that  he 
should  remain  idle  at  his  .post  during  the  long  hours 
of  the  night,  and  his  faculties  were  too  much  on  the 
alert  as  to  the  subject  engaging  his  superiors  to  yield 
to  drowsiness  ;  so,  in  perfect  submission  to  his  ruling 
instincts,  he  plied  the  keyhole  diligently  for  such  infor 
mation  as  it  might  convey  to  his  ear  when  the  parties 
became  so  excited  as  to  raise  their  voices  above  the 
low  tone  to  which  most  of  their  conversation  was  con 
fined.  He  gathered  from  these  snatches  that  Captain 


326  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Jones  was  urgently  entreated  to  perform  some  service 
for  the  boy  which  he  was  reluctant  to  undertake.  He 
heard  him  exclaim  vehemently  :  '  I  will  not  be  persuaded 
to  receive  under  my  roof  the  son  of  that  detestable 
traitor,  whose  treason,  although  to  an  unrighteous 
cause,  caused  my  dearest  friend,  one  of  the  bravest  and 
most  noble  officers  in  his  Majesty's  service,  to  be  hung 
like  a  dog  by  the  vile  rebels.  I  should  be  constantly 
haunted  with  the  thought  that  I  was  nurturing  a  viper 
to  sting  me  when  occasion  offered.'  His  brother 
David  said  something  in  reply,  of  which  Robert  heard 
only  enough  to  infer  that  there  was  a  retired  officer  of 
the  American  army  across  the  river  who  might  be  per 
suaded  to  do  what  was  desired.  '  Very  well,'  said  the 
captain  ;  *  you  can  undertake  the  task,  if  you  see  fit,  but 
I  have  no  belief  that  you  will  gain  the  consent  of  one 
who  loathes  the  father  so  bitterly  to  take  charge  of  the 
son.  Still,  as  he  is  a  bachelor,  he  would  escape  the 
risk  of  exposing  a  family  to  injurious  consequences, 
and  as  sufficient  provision  will  be  made  for  the  support 
and  education  of  the  boy,  there  will  be  no  pecuniary 
risk  ;  it  will  also,  no  doubt,  be  easier,  as  you  say,  to 
keep  the  secret  of  his  birth  in  the  States  than  there  in 
the  vicinity  of  his  father's  retreat.  You  may  perhaps 
succeed,  and  I  wish  no  harm  may  come  of  it  if  you  do.' 

"  Robert  heard  no  more,  and  soon  after  these  remarks 
the  confab  broke  up,  and  he  was  called  to  serve  the 
refreshments  in  the  library. 

"  The  lieutenant  departed  with  the  boy  and  his  at 
tendant  the  next  day.  He  was  absent  some  days,  and 
nothing  further  was  known  as  to  his  journey,  its  object 
and  result,  than  was  gathered  from  Robert's  story, 
which  was  soon  circulated  through  the  neighborhood. 
It  formed  the  basis  of  many  conjectures  and  discus 
sions  among  the  country  people  and  servants.  These 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  327 

were  renewed  with  increased  excitement  when,  after 
some  months,  it  was  discovered  that  a  stone  cottage  in 
the  English  style  had  been  built  in  the  midst  of  a 
dense  wilderness  some  miles  back  from  a  Canadian 
village  situated  on  the  bank  of  the  St.  Lawrence,  and 
was  occupied  by  an  old  man,  whose  sole  attendant  was 
a  servant,  who  visited  that  village  occasionally  for  sup 
plies,  but  utterly  refused  to  answer  the  questions  of  the 
villagers  or  give  any  information  as  to  his  master's 
name  or  history. 

"  I  afterward  learned  from  other  sources  the  further 
particulars  that  at  the  period  to  which  this  account  of 
my  young  friend  referred  a  settlement  was  rapidly 
forming  on  the  American  shore  opposite  to  this  Ca 
nadian  village,  and  that  the  fact  that  a  leading  man  in 
the  newly  rising  community,  a  bachelor  and  retired 
officer  of  the  American  Revolution,  had  adopted  a  boy 
whose  origin  was  unknown,  but  who  bore  the  name  of 
a  traitor — most  odious  to  all  American  people — who  was 
evidently  not  dependent  upon  his  patron  for  anything 
but  care  and  direction,  set  rumor  'with  its  hundred 
tongues'  busy  connecting  the  youth  with  the  mysteri 
ous  recluse  of  the  '  forest  lodge' — as  the  place  was 
named  by  the  country  people — and  set  all  eyes  to 
watching  him  and  his  movements  for  any  circumstance 
that  might  confirm  these  suspicions.  Hence  when  it 
became  known  that  the  boy  sometimes  crossed  the  river 
and  disappeared  with  an  Indian  hunter  in  the  woods, 
under  pretence  of  hunting  the  game  which  abounded 
there,  remaining  upon  each  occasion  for  some  days,  it 
was  taken  as  'confirmation  strong  as  Holy  Writ'  of  the 
prevailing  conjectures,  and  he  was  generally  regarded 
with  increased  aversion.  Despite  these  unfavorable 
influences,  however,  he  lived  and  flourished,  became 
an  enterprising,  respectable  citizen,  and  a  distinguished 


328  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

officer  in  the  volunteer  service  during  the  War  of  1812, 
his  zeal  and  valor  in  the  cause  winning  for  him  the 
public  respect  and  esteem  so  long  unjustly  withheld. 
He  married  a  niece  of  his  benefactor,  and  they  were 
united  in  their  devotion  to  the  interests  and  comfort 
of  her  uncle  in  his  old  age,  inheriting  a  large  portion 
of  his  estate  at  his  death. 

"  The  mystery  surrounding  the  recluse,  the  problem 
of  his  suspected  identity  with  the  notorious  American 
traitor,  and  his  possible  relationship  with  the  boy  in 
question  were  never  solved. 

"  It  continued  for  many  years  to  be  the  subject  of 
evening  gossip  by  rural  firesides  in  that  region,  and 
strange  stories  were  told  by  Indian  and  white  hunters 
and  trappers  of  the  startling  things  they  had  seen  and 
heard  in  the  vicinity  of  the  lonely  cottage — long  since 
fallen  into  decay — both  during  the  occupancy  of  its 
owner  and  after  his  disappearance.  Whether  he  died 
there,  or  left  for  some  far-off  country  before  his  death, 
was  never  known." 


APPENDIX  ¥11, 


SKETCH  OF  GENERAL  JOHN  WATTS   DE 

PEYSTER. 

GENERAL  J.  WATTS  DE  PEYSTER,  the  author  of  the 
poems  on  Oriskany  and  Saratoga,  was  born  at  No.  3 
Broadway,  in  the  city  of  New  York,  March  Qth,  1821. 
He  is  the  descendant,  in  direct  line,  in  the  seventh 
generation,  of  de  Peysters  who  resided  in,  and  in  the 
sixth  of  those  born  in,  the  First  Ward  of  that  city  ; 
and  through  connections  by  blood  and  by  marriage,  his 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  329 

people  filled  the  highest  and  most  important  offices 
under  the  Dutch  and  English  or  British  rule.  His 
mother's  father,  John  Watts  (2d),  was  the  last  Royal 
Recorder  of  the  City  and  the  Founder  andEndower  of 
the  Leake  and  Watts  Orphan  House,  to  whom  the 
general  erected,  in  1892,  a  bronze  statue  in  Trinity 
Churchyard,  which  has  been  pronounced  one  of  the 
finest  in  the  country  and  was  considered  such  an 
admirable  specimen  of  art,  that  a  duplicate  was  selected 
and  sent  to  the  Centennial  Exposition  at  Chicago.  His 
father,  Frederic  de  Peyster,  stood  in  the  highest  rank 
in  literature,  philanthropy,  and  usefulness  in  New  York, 
and  it  was  said  of  him  in  published  obituaries:  "  He 
has  probably  been  connected  as  an  active  officer  with 
more  social,  literary  and  benevolent  societies  than  any 
other  New  Yorker  who  ever  lived."  His  historical 
and  biographical  publications  were  numerous  and 
valuable,  and  to  sum  up,  "  to  him  might  justly  be  ap 
plied  the  expressive  lines  of  Tennyson  as  to  what 
constitutes  a  gentleman. 

His  son,  the  subject  of  this  sketch,  inherited  the 
literary  tastes  and  industry  of  his  family.  He  com 
menced  to  write  for  the  public  press  at  eleven,  and 
since  that  time  he  has  continued  to  publish  works  in 
every  literary  branch,  year  by  year,  ever  since  he  came 
of  age. 

To  a  very  great  extent  a  firm  believer  in  absolute  pre 
destination,  he  claims  that,  as  St.  Paul  remarks,  "  what 
hast  thou  that  thou  didst  not  receive,"  and  as  any  talent 
and  the  power  of  applying  it  came  from  God,  from 
Him  came  the  reward  in  whatever  form  conferred. 
Nevertheless,  the  general's  labors  have  not  been  with 
out  recognition. 

Although  only  an  officer  of  Militia,  or,  as  they 
were  afterward  styled,  "  Military  Forces  of  the  State 


330  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

of  New  York,"  now  National  Guard,  his  every  pro 
motion  was  made  especially  for  "meritorious  conduct" 
or  "  important  services,"  and  after  the  rebellion  he  was 
brevetted  Major-General  State  of  New  York  for 
"  meritorious  services"  by  "  Special  Act,"  or  Concurrent 
Resolution,  New  York  State  Legislature,  April,  1866 
[first  and  only  general  officer  receiving  such  an  honor 
(the  highest)  from  State  of  New  York,  and  the  only 
officer  thus  brevetted  (Major-General)  in  the  United 
States].  He  represented  the  State  as  Military  Agent 
for  observation  abroad,  endorsed  in  the  highest  terms 
by  the  United  States  Executive,  President  Fillmore, 
and  Government  Secretaries  of  State  and  of  War.  His 
Reports  on  Tactics,  Uniform,  Organization,  Arms, 
and  Armament — Arms  and  Ordnance — were  acknowl 
edged  to  contain  "  most  valuable  suggestions"  by 
Jefferson  Davis,  then  Secretary  of  War,  and  his  collec 
tion  of  Foreign  Arms  was  commended  at  Washing 
ton,  whither  they  were  sent,  by  request,  for  inspection. 
His  suggestion  for  the  adoption  of  the  twelve-pounder 
Napoleon-gun  several  years  before  its  approval  by  the 
United  States  Army  Board,  his  ideas  of  Uniform  and 
designation  of  rank  were  adopted  or  imitated  by  the 
rebel  military  authorities,  and  he  was  one  of  the  first 
to  promote  the  institution  of  the  Municipal  Police, 
and  the  substitution  for  the  then  existing  Volunteer 
Fire  Department  of  a  Paid  Organization,  with  steam  fire 
engines  and  a  fire  escape  both  economical  and  effec 
tive.  In  recognition  of  his  services  as  Military  Agent 
of  the  State  of  New  York  in  Europe  he  received  an 
elegant  gold  medal  from  Hon.  Washington  Hunt, 
Governor  of  the  State  of  New  York,  and,  by  a  Special 
Order,  another  gold  medal  was  conferred  under  the 
same  Executive  "for  zeal,  devotion,  and  meritorious 
service,"  and  his  appointment  as  Brigadier-General 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  331 

was  the  first  made  by  any  governor  independently 
and,  as  stated  therein,  "  for  important  services." 

His  works  on  Military  History  and  Criticism  have 
received  the  highest  endorsement  even  to  the  extent 
of  the  opinion  that  his  judgment  in  Strategy  and 
Grand  Tactics  was  almost  infallible,  and  his  views 
or  ideas  on  practical  strategy  elicited  from  General 
Sir  Edward  Gust,  B.A.,  author  of  "  The  Annals  of  the 
Wars,  1700  to  1715,"  in  eleven  volumes,  and  "Lives 
of  the  Warriors,  XVIIth  Century,"  a  "  Letter  Dedi 
catory,"  dated  March,  1869,  of  29  pages.  He  was  also 
the  first  to  demonstrate  to  the  American  people  the 
vast  influence,  in  a  series  of  works,  volumes,  and  articles, 
upon  human  progress  exercised  by  the  Seven  United 
States  of  Holland,  a  subject  which  has  latterly  been 
presented  in  a  more  popular  and  digested  form  by 
the  late  Mr.  Campbell  in  his  book  "The  Puritan  in 
Holland,  England,  and  America;"  and  in  a  series  of 
centennial  articles  in  the  New  York  Times,  New 
York  Mail,  and  other  prominent  papers  he  presented 
the  operations  of  the  Revolutionary  War  from  a  point 
of  view  based  on  original  authorities,  seldom  if 
never  consulted,  demonstrating  errors  that  should 
never  have  occurred  and  which  have  become  strength 
ened  by  repetition. 

For  a  life  of  the  Swedish  Field  Marshal  Torstenson, 
who  may  be  justly  claimed  to  have  decided  the  result 
of  the  Thirty  Years'  War,  and  was  pronounced  by 
Gustavus  Adolphus  as  his  pupil  fittest  to  command 
his  army,  or  any  army,  he  received  three  beautiful 
silver  medals  from  Oscar  I.,  King  of  Sweden,  besides 
being  honored  with  other  badges  and  insignia  for  sim 
ilar  work  subsequently  done  in  military,  historical,  and 
biographical  essays. 

Many  years  ago  he  was  invested  with  the  degree  of 


332  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

LL.D.,  subsequently  with  that  of  Master  of  Arts,  Co 
lumbia  College,  and  recently  with  that  of  Litt.D., 
Doctor  of  Letters  or  Literature  (the  last  a  degree 
conveying  highest  collegiate  distinction,  superior  to 
LL.D.),  Franklin  and  Marshall  College,  corner-stone 
laid  by  Benjamin  Franklin,  1787;  reorganized  1853), 
Lancaster,  Pa.,  1892.  He  is  also  an  honorary  member 
of  historical  societies  too  numerous  to  mention ;  and, 
indeed,  since  this  sketch  is  in  type  he  has  received  no 
tice  of  his  having  been  elected  Honorary  Fellow  of  the 
Society  of  Science,  Letters,  and  Art,  of  London. 

Invidious  remarks  having  been  made  in  regard  to 
General  De  Peyster  not  going  into  the  field  in  1861- 
65,  the  all-sufficient  answer  is  that  a  soldier  to  be  of 
any  value  in  active  service  requires  sound  health  and 
certainly  strong  digestion.  The  famous  General  Wolfe 
wrote  that  he  chiefly  valued  his  promotion  as  general 
because  that  rank  enabled  him  to  command  comforts 
without  which  it  was  impossible  in  his  state  of  health 
to  perform  his  duties  efficiently.  This  remark  was 
made  at  a  time  when  even  field  officers  enjoyed  advan 
tages  now  beyond  the  conceded  rights  in  the  field  of 
any  but  the  highest  in  command. 

Doctors  of  the  highest  ability  advised  him  that  if  he 
did  take  the  field  there  was  only  one  chance  out  of  ten 
of  his  being  able  to  remain  there  or  of  surviving  the 
necessary  acclimatization  to  perform  any  effectual  ser 
vice.  Nevertheless,  he  did  offer  to  go  more  than  once, 
and  to  furnish  admirable  troops,  or  serve  in  any  capacity 
in  which  his  health  would  justify  the  appointment  "  due 
to  acknowledged  ability."  He  was  at  one  time  consid 
ered  for  chief  of  the  personal  staff  which  President 
Lincoln  talked  of  organizing,  until  persuaded  not  to 
do  so  for  reasons  best  known  to  those  who  combated 
the  idea. 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  333 

At  the  age  of  eighteen  he  was  seized  suddenly  with 
such  a  peculiar  and  severe  affection  of  the  heart  that  it 
was  deemed  worthy  of  record  in  permanent  medical 
reports.  The  effects  of  this  continued  for  years.  When 
it  ceased  to  trouble  him  persistently  it  was  followed 
by  hemorrhages,  which  drained  his  life.  At  one  period 
this  continued  for  six  years  continuously,  and  returned 
from  time  to  time  without  notice.  It  did  not  preclude 
at  times  extraordinary  temporary  activity,  if  rest,  relief, 
and  remedies  were  possible  upon  the  first  symptoms 
of  exhaustion  or  of  the  return  of  heart  trouble.  It  is 
said  that  "whoever  excuses  himself  accuses  himself," 
but  that  man  is  the  worst  of  fools  who  is  aware  of  any 
insuperable  obstacle  and  then  undertakes  to  act  against 
knowledge,  when  failure  will  be  attributed  by  mean 
ness  or  injustice  to  the  worst  motives  or  to  any  but 
the  true  cause. 

His  works  on  military  subjects — on  the  Militia  and 
on  the  Fire  Departments  of  Europe — are  masses  of 
information,  whose  only  fault  is  concentration.  They 
would  make  a  dozen  books,  and  for  this  reason  have 
perhaps  been  more  profitable  to  the  fame  of  those  who 
have  subsequently  turned  them  over  than  to  that  of 
the  original  compiler  and  author,  who,  at  much  per 
sonal  expense  of  time  and  money,  collected  them 
during  a  visit  to  Europe.  They  still  offer  abundant 
resources  for  the  improvement  of  our  institutions. 

Nor,  have  General  de  Peyster's  writings  been  con 
fined  solely  to  works  of  a  military  character.  Besides 
biographies  of  our  leading  generals,  representatives 
abroad,  and  other  celebrities,  he  has  written  and  pub 
lished  a  number  of  others  of  a  high  literary  character, 
which  have  met  the  approbation  of  the  severest  critics 
and  the  praise  of  one  of  the  best  judges,  the  lamented 
Bryant ;  likewise  an  historical  drama,  "  Bothwell,"  the 


334  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

successful  lover  and  third  husband  of  Mary  Queen  of 
Scots,  partly  in  blank  verse  and  partly  in  prose,  which 
received  the  following  stamp  of  excellence  from  Le 
Livre,  the  highest  literary  tribunal :  "  Magnificent  to 
read  although  impossible  to  act" — impossible  to  act 
because,  as  remarked  by  an  experienced  stage  manager, 
it  required  too  many  first-class  actors  to  fiil  the  lead 
ing  roles  and  too  expensive  or  perhaps  too  difficult 
scenery  to  produce  and  manage.  In  fact,  the  list  of 
the  general's  publications,  books,  pamphlets,  and  con 
tributions  to  periodicals  fill  eleven  pages  of  one  vol 
ume  of  the  "  Bibliography  of  the  American  Historical 
Association"  besides  a  supplementary  list  in  the  suc 
ceeding  volume,  and  the  enumeration  is  by  no  means 
complete. 

It  only  remains,  in  order  to  fill  out  and  complete 
this  picture,  to  speak  of  its  subject  as  a  man.  In 
person,  General  de  Peyster  is  erect  in  carriage,  and 
bears  so  much  the  stamp  of  a  military  personage,  that 
a  stranger,  observing  him,  would  put  him  down  at 
once  as  belonging  to  that  profession.  In  character, 
notwithstanding  his  ill-health  and  his  being  almost 
continuously  racked  with  pain,  he  is  eminently  genial 
and  possessed  of  so  much  bonhommie  as  to  make  him  a 
most  charming  companion,  and  the  writer  recalls 
many  delightful  hours  spent  with  him  at  his  classic 
country-seat  at  Tivoli,  N.  Y.,  which  overlooks, 
so  to  speak,  the  scene  of  Sir  Henry  Clinton's 
expedition  against  ^Esopus  during  the  Revolution. 
He  possesses,  moreover,  most  endearing  and  affec 
tionate  traits,  and  no  one  is  more  charitable  to  the 
faults  of  others  than  himself.  Nor  are  these  charac 
teristics  confined  solely  to  the  human  family.  His 
considerate  treatment  of  all  dumb  animals  is  remark 
able,  and  a  tombstone  in  his  grounds,  which  com- 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  335 

memorates  an  affectionate  dog,  serves  also  both  to 
mark  the  grave  and  the  kindness  of  heart  which 
prompted  its  erection.* 

In  fine,  to  apply  to  him  the  tribute  which  dear  old 
Horace  gave  to  his  friend  Fuscus  : 

"  Integer  vitae  scelerisque  purus 
Non  eget  mauvis  jaculis,  neque  arcu." 


APPENDIX  VIII, 


REV.  THOMAS  ALLEN,  the  "  Parson"  who  forms  the 
subject  of  the  ballad  on  the  "  Catamount  Tavern,"  was 
born  at  Northampton,  Mass.,  January  7th,  1743,  and 
graduated  from  Harvard  College  in  1762,  being  ranked 
among  the  first  classical  scholars  of  his  time.  It  will 
thus  occur  to  the  reader  that  the  "  Parson,"  as  he  is 
called  in  tradition,  in  a  jocular  manner,  is  hardly  in 
keeping  with  his  real  character.  Rev.  Mr.  Allen  studied 
theology  under  Rev.  Mr.  Hooker,  of  Northampton, 
and  was  ordained  April  i8th,  1764,  as  the  first  minis 
ter  of  Pittsfield,  Berkshire  County,  Mass.,  which  was 
named  in  honor  of  William  Pitt,  and  which  was  then 
a  frontier  town,  in  which  a  garrison  had  been  kept 
during  the  French  War.  The  Indian  name  was  Pon- 
toosuc.  At  the  time  of  Mr.  Allen's  settlement  Pitts- 

f  The  writer  likewise  appreciates  fully  this  particular 
trait  in  General  de  Peyster's  character,  since  he,  also, 
has  placed  a  marble  slab  over  the  remains  of  a  dog 
which  during  life  was  more  faithful  to  him  than  many 
of  his  so-called  "friends." 


336  ITie  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

field  contained  but  six  houses  not  built  of  logs.  He 
lived  to  see  it  a  wealthy  and  beautiful  town,  with  six 
thousand  inhabitants. 

In  the  Revolutionary  struggle  he  was  an  ardent  sup 
porter  of  the  colonies,  and  twice  went  out  as  a  volun 
teer  chaplain.  From  October  3d  until  January  23d, 
1776,  he  was  with  the  army  at  White  Plains,  and  in 
June  and  July,  1 777,  at  Ticonderoga.  After  the  retreat 
of  the  army  from  that  post  he  returned  home.  Upon 
the  approach  of  the  British,  under  Colonel  Baum,  to 
the  vicinity  of  Bennington  he  marched  with  the  Pitts- 
field  volunteers  to  repel  the  invasion.  Prior  to  the 
assault  of  the  intrenchments  occupied  by  the  refugees, 
he  advanced,  and  in  a  voice  which  they  distinctly  heard 
called  upon  them  to  surrender,  promising  good  treat 
ment  ;  but  being  fired  upon,  he  rejoined  the  militia, 
and  was  among  the  foremost  of  those  who  entered  the 
breastworks  ;  and  there  is  no  question  but  that  his  ex 
ertions  and  example  contributed  materially  to  the 
triumph  of  August  i6th,  which  so  greatly  checked 
Burgoyne's  progress  and  led  to  the  capture  of  that 
general.  Undoubtedly,  also,  his  experiences  in  the 
service  before  this,  at  the  battle  of  White  Plains,  etc., 
gave  him  valuable  experience  as  a  soldier  of  the  church 
militant,  and  thus  aided  him  in  his  directions  to  the 
raw  levies  in  the  battle.  After  the  action  he  secured 
the  horse  of  a  Brunswick  surgeon,  which  carried  a  pair 
of  panniers  filled  with  bottles  of  wine.  The  wine  he 
administered  to  the  wounded  and  weary ;  but  two 
large,  square,  glass-case  bottles  he  carried  home  as 
trophies  of  his  campaign  of  four  days.  Of  his  after 
life  there  are  many  valuable  accounts,  as  it  was  filled 
with  stirring  adventures,  especially  one,  when  he  crossed 
the  sea  to  London  to  bring  home  to  his  family  an  in 
fant  child  of  his  daughter,  who  died  in  that  city  in 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  337 

1799.  While  in  London  he  saw  the  king,  as  he  passed 
from  St.  James  to  the  Parliament  House,  in  a  coach 
drawn  by  six  cream-colored  horses,  and  on  this  sight 
recorded  the  following  reflections:  "This  is  he  who 
desolated  my  country,  who  ravaged  the  American 
coasts,  annihilated  our  trade,  burned  our  towns,  plun 
dered  our  cities,  sent  forth  his  Indian  allies  to  scalp 
our  wives  and  children,  starved  our  youth  in  his 
prison-ships,  and  caused  the  expenditure  of  a  hundred 
millions  of  money  and  a  hundred  thousand  of  precious 
lives.  Instead  of  being  the  father  of  his  people,  he  has 
been  their  destroyer.  May  God  forgive  him  so  great 
guilt.  And  yet  he  is  the  idol  of  the  people,  who  think 
they  cannot  live  without  him."  Rev.  Mr.  Allen  died 
Sabbath  morning,  February  nth,  1810,  in  the  forty- 
seventh  year  of  his  ministry.  (See  Allen's  "  Biograph 
ical  Dictionary" — from  which  this  sketch  has  been 
taken — for  a  fuller  account.) 


APPENDIX  IX, 


THE  CATAMOUNT  TAVERN* 

BY  CHARLES  M.   BLISS. 

THE  "Green  Mountain  Tavern,"  the  resort  of  the 
"  Green  Mountain  Boys,"  is  here  referred  to.  In 
what  is  now  the  village  of  Bennington  Center — the 
Bennington  of  Revolutionary  fame — it  had  stood  until 
March  3Oth,  1871,  for  more  than  one  hundred  years, 
a  most  noted  relic  of  Revolutionary  and  even  of  ante- 
Revolutionary  days.  In  fact,  events  which  occurred 
before  the  Revolution  gave  it  its  name  and  its  chief 

*  See  Frontispiece. 


338  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

title  to  fame.  The  land  controversy  between  the  set 
tlers  on  the  New  Hampshire  Grants  and  the  provincial 
government,  but  not  the  people,  of  New  York — a  con 
troversy  but  for  which  Vermont  would  not  have 
been,  first  brought  "  Landlord  Fay's"  tavern  into 
prominence.  Stephen  Fay,  its  proprietor,  was  himself 
one  of  the  prominent  actors  in  this  controversy,  as  he 
also  was  in  the  preparations  for  the  battle  of  Benning- 
ton.  He  had  five  sons  in  the  battle,  one  of  whom 
was  killed.  It  was  during  the  long  and  bitter  land 
controversy  that  the  settlers  placed  a  large  stuffed 
catamount,  felis  concolor,  over  the  swinging  sign  of  the 
inn,  with  its  face  set  toward  New  York,  in  token  of  their 
defiance  of  New  York  authority.  Hence  the  name 
"  Catamount  Tavern." 

The  early  settlers  of  Vermont  held  title  to  their 
lands  by  virtue  of  grants  from  New  Hampshire,  and 
the  territory  so  held  was  called  the  New  Hampshire 
Grants.  By  a  right  perhaps  equally  good  New  York 
granted  the  same  lands  to  others.  The  crown  decided 
in  favor  of  the  New  Hampshire  title,  but  the  contro 
versy  did  not  stop.  The  owners  of  the  New  York 
grants,  having  paid  for  them,  demanded  of  the  settlers 
under  the  New  Hampshire  grants  departure  or  repay 
ment.  The  settlers  refused  both.  They  were  not 
averse  to  the  jurisdiction  of  New  York ;  they  were  to 
the  demands  of  the  New  York  claimants.  The  New 
York  courts  sustained  the  New  York  claimants,  and 
attempted  to  eject  the  settlers  from  their  lands  by  legal 
process.  This  was  successfully  resisted  by  force.  After 
many  ineffectual  efforts  of  the  court  of  Albany  County 
to  enforce  its  decrees  a  determined  attempt  was 
made,  July  igth,  1771,  to  secure  the  farm  of 
James  Breakenridge  in  the  town  of  Bennington,  and 
this  also  failed.  The  sheriff  of  the  county  and  the 


The  Burgvyne  Ballads.  339 

mayor  of  Albany,  with  an  armed  posse  of  over  three 
hundred  men,  were  the  aggressive  party,  but  the  oppos 
ing  force,  with  headquarters  at  the  Catamount  Tavern, 
and  under  the  lead  of  Ethan  Allen,  was  too  strong  for 
them.  No  shots  were  fired,  however,  and  in  the 
bloodless  victory  on  this  farm,  to  use  the  words  of  the 
late  Governor  Hiland  Hall,  in  his  "  Early  History  of 
Vermont,"  ''was  born  the  future  State  of  Vermont." 

The  same  year  James  Duane,  of  New  York  City,  a 
land  speculator,  and  John  Kempe,  the  Attorney-Gen 
eral  of  the  province,  made  themselves  very  obnoxious 
to  the  settlers.  Their  agents  were  roughly  handled  by 
Robert  Cochran,  the  real  owner  of  some  of  these  lands, 
assisted  by  Ethan  Allen,  Remember  Baker  and  a  few 
others.  Governor  Tryon,  considering  this  a  serious 
outrage,  offered  a  reward  of  twenty  pounds  each  for  the 
arrest  of  these  men.  Allen  and  Baker  and  Cochran 
at  once  issued  a  counter  proclamation,  promising  a 
reward  of  fifteen  and  ten  pounds  for  the  arrest  of  "thost^ 
common  disturbers,"  Duane  and  Kempe  respective^", 
and  their  delivery  "  at  Landlord  Fay's." 

Immediately  after  the  Breakenridge  affair,  inhabitants 
of  the  towns  west  of  the  Green  Mountains  organized  a 
military  body  called  the  "Green  Mountain  Boys." 
Ethan  Allen  was  their  colonel  and  Seth  Warner  a 
captain.  They  were  "Minute  Men,"  ready  and  willing 
to  serve  literally  at  a  moment's  notice  in  defence  of 
their  rights.  New  Hampshire  was  too  far  away  to  aid 
them  ;  on  themselves  they  must  depend.  They  did 
little  actual  fighting,  however.  They  had  other  methods 
of  defence.  In  various  ways  they  harassed  the  New 
York  officials,  and  also  the  New  York  sympathizers 
among  the  settlers,  whom  they  stigmatized  as  "  York 
ers."  These  Green  Mountain  Boys  were  always  on 
the  watch  for  them,  and  they  were  sure  to  make 


34:0  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

examples  of  the  officers  if  they  caught  them.  They 
"  chastised  them  with  the  twigs  of  the  wilderness,"  sent 
them  beyond  their  borders,  and  commanded  them 
never  to  return.  One  contumacious  person,  a  "  York 
er,"  they  brought  to  the  Catamount  Tavern  and  swung 
up  in  an  arm-chair  under  Landlord  Fay's  sign,  where 
they  kept  him  for  two  hours,  an  object  of  derision 
to  the  crowd  gathered  to  see  the  sport. 

These  were  the  men,  an  organized  body,  who  cap 
tured  Ticonderoga,  May  loth,  1775.  It  was  in  the 
Catamount  Tavern  that  their  leader,  Ethan  Allen,  on 
May  3d,  arranged  with  the  Connecticut  and  Massachu 
setts  men  for  its  capture,  the  former  having  brought 
the  funds  to  pay  the  expenses  of  the  expedition  and 
the  latter  a  small  force  to  join  it.  From  here  went 
out  orders  to  summon  every  man  to  muster  for  the  cap 
ture.  One  of  the  messengers  sent  from  Castleton 
travelled  sixty  miles  on  foot  in  one  day  through  the 
wilderness,  from  clearing  to  clearing,  on  this  duty. 

The  Catamount  Tavern  was  the  headquarters  of 
General  Stark  at  the  time  of  the  battle  of  Bennington, 
and  the  captured  British  officers  were  kept  here  after 
the  battle  as  prisoners  of  war.  Contrary  to  the  popu 
lar  belief  of  to-day  and  to  the  general  record  of  his 
tory,  Stark  was  on  the  march  from  Manchester  via 
Bennington  to  join  General  Schuyler  on  the  Hudson, 
in  obedience  to  the  latter's  orders.  He  finally  disobey 
ed  those  orders,  not  because  of  the  slight  put  upon 
him  by  Congress,  but  on  the  representation  of  the 
Vermont  Council  of  Safety,  in  session  in  the  Council 
Room  at  Landlord  Fay's. 

This  Council  of  twelve  members,  one  of  whom,  and 
its  secretary,  was  a  son  of  Landlord  Fay,  was  the  pro 
visional  but  legitimate  government  of  the  new  State 
of  Vermont,  just  sprung  into  being  and  not  yet  a 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  341 

twelvemonth  oM.  This  civil  authority,  composed  of 
Vermont  men  on  the  ground,  was  better  informed  of 
the  plans  and  movements  of  Burgoyne  than  the  New 
Hampshire  general  just  arrived.  To  them  he  wisely 
listened.  His  own  words,  written  to  the  Courant  at 
Hartford,  Conn.,  two  days  after  the  battle,  and  printed 
therein  October  7th,  1777,  make  this  point  clear.  He 
says  :  "  After  my  arrival  at  that  place  [Manchester, 
Vt.],  I  received  orders  from  Major-General  Lincoln, 
pursuant  to  orders  from  General  Schuyler,  to  march 
my  whole  brigade  to  Stillwater  and  join  the  main  army 
under  his  command.  ...  In  obedience  thereto,  I 
marched  with  my  brigade  to  Bennington,  on  my  way 
to  join  him,  leaving  that  part  of  the  country  almost 
wholly  naked  to  the  ravage  of  the  enemy.  The  Hon 
orable  the  Council  then  sitting  at  Bennington  were 
much  against  my  marching  with  my  brigade,  as  it 
was  raised  on  their  request,  they  apprehending  great 
danger  of  the  enemy's  approaching  to  that  place,  which 
afterward  we  found  truly  to  be  the  case." 

To  the  failure  of  Burgoyne  to  cut  off  New  England, 
then  one  third  of  the  country,  from  the  rest  of  the  Colo 
nies,  is  ascribed  the  willingness  of  France  to  aid  the 
American  cause  openly,  and  thus  to  secure  the  inde 
pendence  of  the  United  States.  In  achieving  this  in 
dependence,  the  aid  of  France  is  now  freely  acknowl 
edged  throughout  our  country.  That  of  the  State  of 
Vermont  is  also  entitled  to  mention  in  history ;  and 
in  the  making  of  the  nation,  the  work  of  the  patriots 
of  the  Catamount  Tavern,  founders  of  a  State,  coming 
up,  as  it  does,  to  the  measure  of  Lafayette's  love  of 
liberty,  ranks  higher  in  the  moral  scale  than  that  of 
the  enemies  of  England  at  Versailles. 

Ethan  Allen  lived  at  Landlord  Fay's  upon  occa 
sion,  and  his  name  appears  in  one  of  Captain  Fay's 


342  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

account  books,  still  extant  in  Bennington.  The  first 
legislature  of  Vermont  sat  here.  Here,  in  1778,  David 
Redding  was  tried  as  a  traitor  "  for  enemical  conduct" 
and  was  hanged.  A  peculiarity  of  the  trial  was  that 
only  six  jurors  sat.  The  Governor  and  Council  there 
upon  ordered  a  new  trial,  and  thus  disappointed  the 
excited  patriots  who  had  assembled  to  witness  the 
execution.  Whereupon  Ethan  Allen  assured  them 
that  the  proceeding  was  strictly  lawful,  and  that  after 
the  new  trial  if  Redding  were  not  hung  he  would  "  be 
hung  himself." 

To  designate  the  spot  where  the  famous  tavern 
stood,  the  pedestal  of  a  monument  has  been  placed  in 
position,  to  be  surmounted  by  a  bronze  catamount, 
though  with  his  wrinkled  visage  smoothed,  for  after 
more  than  a  century  the  war  between  the  Green 
Mountain  Boys  and  the  Yorkers  is  over.  Vermont 
is  a  result  of  that  war ;  the  combatants  compromised 
their  differences ;  the  fourteen-year-old  State  was  ad 
mitted  to  the  Union  ;  the  Catamount  Tavern,  for  over 
twenty  years  a  "lively"  inn,  subsided  to  the  humdrum 
occupation  of  furnishing  entertainment  for  man  and 
beast,  coming  in  large  numbers  from  the  less  favored 
parts  of  New  England  to  this  no  longer  turbulent 
land  of  promise  ;  peace  reigned,  and  as  of  old  out  of 
the  strong  came  forth  sweetness. 


APPENDIX  X, 


THE    CORRECT    SPELLING     OF    BEMUS. 

PROBABLY  no  question  in  connection  with  Bur- 
goyne's  campaign  has  given  rise  to  so  much  discussion 
as  that  concerning  the  spelling  of  the  name  of  that  old 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  343 

settler  who  kept  a  tavern  on  the  river-road  from 
Schuylerville  to  Albany,  and  from  whom  the  Heights 
near  him  took  their  name.  By  Burgoyne's  chief 
engineer,  in  his  maps  of  the  two  actions  (September 
I9th  and  October  7th,  1777),  and  by  different  histo 
rians  the  name  has  been  spelled  in  as  many  ways 
as  there  have  been  writers  on  our  Revolutionary 
history — Bemis,  Bremis,  Braemus,  Behmus,  Behmis, 
Bernese  and  Beemis  being  the  most  common. 

By  a  letter,  however,  which  I  received  some  years 
since  from  that  distinguished  antiquarian  and  local 
historian,  Mr.  B.  B.  Burt,  of  Oswego,  N.  Y.,  I  am 
finally  enabled  to  settle  this  much-mooted  point. 

MR.  BURT'S  LETTER. 

"  OSWEGO,  April  22,  1881. 
"  Mr.  W.  L.  Stone. 

"  DEAR  SIR  :  Rev.  Samuel  H.  Adams,  a  gentleman 
and  a  scholar,  spent  a  few  days  with  me  the  last  week, 
and  I  learned  from  him  that  he  was  a  descendant  of 
the  Bemus  from  whom  the  Heights  of  Revolutionary 
fame  were  named  ;  and  inasmuch  as  I  knew  that  the 
name  had  been  used  and  spelled  in  different  ways,  I 
asked  him  to  note  what  he  knew  about  it  on  the  next 
page.  I  send  you  his  statement.  Truly  yours, 

"  B.  B.  BURT." 

REV.  SAMUEL  H.  ADAMS'S  STATEMENT. 

"  My  grandmother  and  her  brothers,  who  were  the 
children  of  the  Mr.  Bemus  from  whom  the  Heights 
were  named,  always  spelled  their  name  Bemus,  and  she 
was  quite  disturbed  that  the  error  of  Bemis  should  so 
commonly  appear. 

"  She  married  Daniel  Crawford,  Saratoga  Springs, 


344  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

and  was  for  many  years  the  oldest  person  in  Saratoga 
County.  [Was  this  Crawford  the  one  mentioned  in 
Mr.  Ruling's  *  Reminiscences  of  Saratoga  Fifty 
Years  Ago  ? ' — W  .L.  S.]  Her  brother  moved  to  Chau- 
tauqua  County,  and  Bemus  Point,  on  Chautauqua 
Lake,  was  named  from  him. 

"  All  his  descendants  in  that  county  spell  the  name 
Bemus,  and  will  on  no  account  spell  it  otherwise. 
Another,  Matthew  Pendergrass  Bemus,  was  a  member 
of  the  New  York  Assembly  from  1868  to  1872  inclu 
sive.  SAMUEL  H.  ADAMS. 

< April  1 8,  1 88 1." 

To  give,  however,  all  the  data  on  this  much-mooted 
point,  the  Saratoga  Sentinel,  in  reply  to  the  foregoing, 
printed  the  following : 

"  In  our  investigations  we  have  found  that  Mr. 
Adam  Snyder,  of  this  village,  now  over  seventy  years 
old,  lived  with  John  Bemis,  who  died  in  this  town  in 
1829.  Mr.  Snyder  spells  the  name  just  as  we  have 
given  it,  and  says  that  is  the  proper  way.  He  does 
not  know  the  exact  relationship  of  John  Bemis  of  this 
town  to  the  Stillwater  family,  but  says  that  he  thinks 
he  was  a  nephew  of  the  owner  of  the  famous  Heights. 
He  knows  he  was  a  brother  of  Mrs.  Daniel  Crawford, 
whose  name  is  mentioned  above,  and  tells  us  that  he 
remembers  distinctly  that  Mr.  Bemis 'purchased  fifty 
acres  of  land  on  the  south  bounds  of  the  village  (being 
the  Crawford  Tavern,  alluded  to  by  Mr.  Stone),  about 
the  year  1826,  paying  $1000  therefor.  Mr.  Crawford 
had  become  somewhat  embarrassed  by  reason  of  giving 
surety  for  a  man,  and  his  brother-in-law,  John  Bemis, 
bought  the  place  for  him  on  that  account.  John 
Bemis  died  childless  in  1829,  as  above  noted.  The 
different  branches  of  the  same  family  vary  in  spelling 


The  Buryoyne  Ballads.  345 

their  name  sometimes,  and  it  may  be  the  parties 
referred  to  by  Messrs.  Burt  and  Hall  have  done  so, 
and  now  claim  it  to  be  the  original. 

'"Since  writing  the  foregoing  we  have  conversed  with 
C.  E.  Durkee,  Esq.,  on  the  subject.  Mr.  Durkee  has 
a  taste  for  genealogical  studies  and  has  many  books  on 
the  subject,  among  them  a  history  of  Watertown, 
Mass.,  wherein  it  is  stated  that  the  Bemis  who  settled 
in  this  county  emigrated  from  Watertown,  and  while 
the  members  of  the  family  are  said  to  have  spelled 
their  name  variously,  Bemis  is  given  as  the  prevailing 
and  most  usually  adopted  way." 

In  answer  to  this  last,  from  the  Saratoga  Sentinel, 
I  append  the  following,  which,  I  think,  conclusively 
settles  the  question.  However,  I  give  all  the  data  on 
this  much-vexed  question,  and  our  readers  must  judge 
for  themselves : 

SOME  MORE  LIGHT  ON  THE  OLD  SETTLER  BEMUS. 
To  the  Editor  of  the  u  Saratogian" 

SIR  :  Since  sending  you  the  communication  in  re 
gard  to  the  spelling  of  the  name  of  Bemus,  Rev.  Mr. 
Adams — the  grandson  of  Bemus — has  written  the 
following  note  to  Mr.  B.  B.  Burt,  of  Oswego,  called 
forth  by  the  publication  of  his  letter  to  Mr.  Burt,  in 
the  Saratogian  of  the  5th  inst.  I  give  herewith  his 
letter.  W.  L.  STONE. 

JERSEY  CITY  HEIGHTS,  May  12. 

CLIFTON  SPRINGS,  N.  Y.,  May  9. 
B.  B.  Burt,  Oswego,  N.  Y. 

DEAR  FRIEND  :  .  .  .  I  regret  that  so  little  infor 
mation  of  the  old  settler,  Jotham  Bemus,  is  in  my 
possession.  Beyond  the  facts  that  he  was  born  about 


346  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

1738,  married  Tryphena  Moore,  was  a  fanner  occu 
pying  the  Heights  (called  after  him),  and  kept  for 
many  years  a  tavern  (the  most  popular  for  many  years 
between  Fort  Edward  and  Albany)  near  the  Heights; 
that  he  was  in  easy  financial  circumstances  and  was 
engaged  extensively  in  buying  cattle ;  that  he  was 
stoutly  built  and  energetic  in  all  he  did  ;  that  he  died 
in  1786,  leaving  four  children,  viz. :  William,  Jotham, 
John  and  Sally ;  aside  from  this  outline  I  know  but 
little. 

I  may  be  able  to  gather  something  more  from  my 
aunt,  Mrs.  Martha  B.  Hall,  whose  husband  (formerly 
of  Saratoga  Springs),  Ezra  Hall,  is  the  proprietor  of 
Bemus  Hotel,  Evansville,  Ind.  Mr.  Crawford  was 
fifty  years  ago  owner  and  proprietor  of  what  was  then 
known  as  "  Highland  Hall,"  which  was  a  little  out 
from  Saratoga  village,  on  the  Dunning  Street  road 
south. 

William,  the  oldest  son  of  this  old  settler,  Jotham 
Bemus,  was  born  at  Bemus  Heights  in  1762;  married 
Mary  Pendergast,  1782;  settled  in  Pittston,  Rensse- 
laer  County,  and  removed  thence  in  1802. 

My  grandmother,  Sally  Bemus  Crawford,  was  born 
at  Bemus  Heights  in  May,  1768,  and  removed  from 
Saratoga  Springs  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hall  to  Indiana 
in  1864.  She  has  spent  hours  telling  me  of  "  Burgine" 
and  his  army,  which  she  saw ;  of  the  burning  of  her 
father's  house  by  the  British,  and  of  the  sufferings  of 
the  family  for  a  time  while  they  were  wintering  in  a 
barn — Burgoyne  having  destroyed  all  their  buildings 
and  crops.  Sincerely  yours, 

S.  H.  ADAMS.* 

*  In  this  letter  of  Mr.  S.  H.  Adams  he  is  hardly 
correct  in  one  statement — at  least,  such  is  the  infer- 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  347 

THE  CORRECT  ORTHOGRAPHY  OF  THE  GREAT  BATTLE 

GROUND. 

In  addition  to  the  letters  in  the  last  Democrat  upon 
this  subject,  we  publish  the  following  obituary  notice 
in  tiiC  Saratoga  Sentinel  of  September  I5th,  1829  : 

"  Died,  inthis  town,  on  the  eighth  instant,  Mr.  John 
Bemus,  in  the  sixty-sixth  year  of  his  age.  Mr.  B.  was 
born  on  the  farm  comprising  the  celebrated  Bemus' 
Heights,  which  was  owned  by  his  father,  and  from 
whose  name  it  received  its  local  designation.  Though 
young,  he  was  in  the  American  service  at  the  capture 
of  Burgoyne,  as  a  teamster,  and  continned  to  reside 
on  the  consecrated  soil  of  his  father  until  his  removal 
to  this  place  several  years  since."  (The  Ballston 
Democrat,  Friday,  May  13,  1881.) 

BEMUS   OR   BEMIS. 

Last  week  we  spoke  of  various  discussions  which 
we  had  read  in  the  past  forty  years  regarding  the 

ence  drawn  from  a  letter  to  me  under  date  of  May  igth, 
1893,  fr°m  Mr.  Daniel  H.  Post,  of  Jamestown,  N.  Y., 
a  great-great-great-grandson  of  Jotham  Bemus.  Mr. 
Post  writes  as  follows:  "Jotham  Bemus  had  more 
than  five  children,  viz. :  Jotham,  Tryphena,  William, 
John,  Sally,  James  and  Nancy.  Jotham,  the  son  of 
Jotham  first,  was  a  soldier  in  the  Revolution,  as  was 
also  his  brother  William,  who  served  as  a  private  in 
Colonel  Van  Vecton's  Regiment,  Woodworth's  Com 
pany.  William  removed  from  Pittston,  N.  Y.,  in 
1805,  to  Chautauqua  County,  N.  Y.,  and,  in  1806, 
settled  at  what  is  now  known  as  Bemus  Point." 


348  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

methods  of  spelling  the  name  of  the  man  from  whom 
one  of  the  great  revolutionary  battlefields  took  its 
principal  name,  and  gave  evidence  why  we  considered 
Bemis  the  more  authentic  orthography  than  Bemus. 
Our  authorities  then  were  verbal.  Now  we  have  the 
following  extract  from  an  obituary  notice  published  in 
the  Saratoga  Sentinel  of  September  I5th,  1829,  as 
evidence  to  the  contrary  spelling: 

"  Died,  in  this  town,  on  the  eighth  instant,  Mr.  John 
Bemus,  in  the  sixty-sixth  year  of  his  age.  Mr.  B.  was 
born  on  the  farm  comprising  the  celebrated  Bemus' 
Heights,  which  was  owned  by  his  father,  and  from 
whose  name  it  received  its  local  designation.  Though 
young,  he  was  in  the  American  service  at  the  capture 
of  Burgoyne,  as  a  teamster,  and  continued  to  reside 
on  the  consecrated  soil  of  his  father  until  his  removal 
to  this  place  several  years  since." 

This  would  seem  to  be  a  settler  against  any  bare 
recollection,  such  as  we  gave  last  week,  but  we  have 
still  further  evidence  on  the  same  side.  In  the  surro 
gate's  office  we  find  the  record  of  the  will  of  this  John 
Bemus,  drawn  probably  by  Judiah  Ellsworth,  who, 
together  with  Samuel  Chapman  and  John  H.  Steel  (all 
of  them  leading  citizens  of  this  town),  sign  the  same 
as  witnesses,  and  the  name  is  spelled  Bemus  in  the 
body  of  the  will  and  also  in  what  purports  to  be  the 
signature.  But.  to  show  how  officials  vary,  we  will  say 
that  we  found  the  name  spelled  Bemis  in  the  index  of 
the  will,  apparently  made  a  few  years  since. 

Our  conclusion  is  then  that  Bemus  was  the  orthog 
raphy  preferred  by  those  of  the  name  who  resided  here 
abouts,  and  we  shall  use  it  hereafter,  while  we  have  no 
doubt  that  the  spelling  preferred  by  the  old  settlers  of 
Watertown,  Mass.,  from  whence  the  family  emigrated, 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  349 

was   Bemis,   as   given    in    the   history  of  Watertown 
referred  to  last  week. 

We  may  add  that  from  the  will  of  John  Bemus  he 
would  appear  to  have  been  quite  a  well-to-do  citizen. 
He  gave  one  half  his  property  to  his  sister,  Sally 
Crawford,  dividing  the  balance  between  Nancy  Beck- 
with,  Nabby  Clements,  and  Lucratia  Wilcox  ;  Benja 
min  Crawford,  Peter  Fort,  and  Joshua  Finch  were  the 
executors  of  the  will. 

Since  the  foregoing  was  in  type  we  have  been 
studying  the  almanacs.  We  find  by  the  Albany 
Evening  Journal  Almanac  that  Solomon  K.  Bem^y 
represents  Chenango  County  in  the  Assembly.  The 
Albany  Argus  Almanac  says  that  Solomon  K.  Bemzss 
is  the  representative  of  that  county,  also  that  he  has 
been  postmaster  of  the  town  of  Pitcher.  The  Tribune 
Almanac  gives  the  name  as  Solomon  K.  Bemz>.  The 
red  book,  giving  the  list  of  postmasters,  spells  the 
name  Bemm,  as  does  the  Argus  Almanac,  and  the 
official  postal  guide  spells  it  Bemz>.  If  variety  is  the 
spice  of  life,  certainly  Solomon  K.  Bemzs-us-zss-zs 
gives  us  plenty  in  the  spelling  of  his  name.  (The 
Saratoga  Sentinel,  Thursday,  May  iQth,  1881.) 


APPENDIX  XL 


AUSTIN  W.  HOLDEN,  M.D. 
BY  JAMES  H.  HOLDEN. 

AUSTIN  WELLS  HOLDEN,  A.M.,  M.D.,  historian,  pa 
triot  and  litterateur,  was  born  in  the  town  of  White  Creek, 
Washington  County,  N.  Y.,  May  i6th,  1819.  His 
early  education  was  acquired  at  the  St.  Lawrence 


350  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

Academy,  Potsdam,  N.  Y.     In  1836  his  father  removed 
to  Glens  Fall,  N.  Y.,  where  the  subject  of  this  sketch 
began   the  study  of  law  with  the  Honorable  William 
Hay,  a  noted  lawyer  and  writer  of  that  day.     Obliged, 
for  pecuniary  reasons,  to  relinouish  this  profession,  he 
entered   his  father's  cabinet-shop,  where  he  remained 
until  his  twenty-second  year.     During  this  time    he 
studied   diligently  the  works  of  ancient  and  modern 
writers,  and  about  1841  began  the  study  of  medicine. 
A  little  later  he  entered  the  Albany   Medical  College, 
from  which  he  graduated  with  distinction  in  1848,  and 
opened   his  office  at   Warrensburg,  the  central  town 
of  Warren  County,  N.  Y.     In  1851,  he  was  married 
to    Elizabeth    Buell,  of  Glens  Falls,  daughter  of  the 
Honorable    Horatio    Buell,   at    one    time  judge    of 
Warren  County;  sister  of  the  late  James  Buell,  Presi 
dent  of  the  Importers  and  Traders  Bank  of  New  York 
City,  and  niece   of  the   late    Sarah    Josepha  (Buell) 
Hale,  for  many  years  editor  of  Godeys  Lady  s  Book. 
Three  children  resulted  from  this  union,  only  one  of 
whom,  James   A.  Holden,  of  Glens    Falls,  now    sur 
vives.     In   1852  Dr.  Holden  removed  with  his  family 
to  ^Glens    Falls,  where    he  located  in  practice.     Five 
years   later,  after   thorough    investigation,  he  adopted 
the  Homoeopathic  systemof  medicine,  and  became  one 
of  the  most  noted  and  successful  practitioners  of  that 
school  in    Northern    New    York.     In    1861,  on    the 
fall  of  Fort  Sumter,  Dr.  Holden  was  the  first  to  offer 
his  services  to  the  State,  and  raised  the  first  company  of 
men  in  Warren  County.     This  company,  with  him  as 
its  captain,  was  attached  to  the  famous  Twenty-second 
Regiment,  part  of  the  noted  "  Iron  Brigade."     After 
serving   as  an  officer  a  short  time,  Dr.  Holden,  at  the 
request  of  officers  and  men,  was  transferred,  as  first 
assistant  surgeon,  to  the  medical  staff  of  the  regiment, 


The  Burgoyne  Ballads.  351 

where  his  services  were  most  needed,  and  where  he 
did  brave  and  excellent  work.  After  he  was  mustered 
out  in  1863,  he  returned  as  an  acting  assistant  surgeon 
to  the  United  States  Army,  serving  in  various  promi 
nent  hospitals  till  Lee's  surrender.  For  meritorious 
service  he  received  a  commission  as  brevet  major 
from  Governor  Fenton.  Returning  home,  he  resumed 
the  practice  of  his  profession,  in  which  he  was  most 
successful.  He  was  one  of  the  most  prominent  mem 
bers  of  the  State  Homoeopathic  Medical  Society,  hold 
ing  during  the  course  of  his  membership  the  offices  of 
censor,  vice-president,  president  and  necrologist.  In 
1879  he  was  recommended  for  and  received  the  hon 
orary  degree  of  M.D.  from  the  Regents  of  the  Uni 
versity.  During  the  years  1877-78  he  was  chief  of 
staff  of  the  Ward's  Island  Homoeopathic  Hospital  at 
New  York,  serving  acceptably  till  failing  health  com 
pelled  him  to  resign.  He  was  a  life-long  Democrat, 
and  in  1874  was  elected  to  the  Assembly  from  Warren 
County,  which  is  strongly  Republican  in  sentiment. 
He  was  one  of  the  first  members  of  Queensbury's 
board  of  education,  formed  in  1882,  and  served  for  six 
years.  Up  to  January,  1891,  he  was  a  member  and 
president  of  the  local  board  of  United  States  Pension 
Examiners.  In  1877  he  received  as  an  honorarium  the 
degree  of  A.M.  from  Union  College.  Both  he  and 
his  wife  were  noted  for  their  liberality  and  benevo 
lence,  their  zeal  and  efficiency  in  the  service  of  their 
Lord  and  Master.  For  forty  years  much  of  Dr.  Hoi- 
den's  time  was  devoted  to  literary  pursuits.  He  was  a 
voluminous  contributor  to  the  public  press,  a  poet  of 
no  small  degree  of  excellence,  while  his  researches 
and  labors  in  the  domain  of  local  history  have  been 
fruitful  in  rescuing  from  oblivion  many  detached  facts 
and  incidents  of  the  past,  that  in  another  generation 


352  The  Burgoyne  Ballads. 

would  have  been  irremediably  lost.  His  chief  and 
lasting  monument,  which  will  bear  his  name  down  to 
posterity,  is  a  work  entitled  "  A  History  of  Queens- 
bury,  N.  Y.,"  which  covers  an  important  era  and  sec 
tion  of  country  in  relation  to  American  history.  In 
recognition  of  his  literary  abilities,  he  received,  in 
addition  to  the  honorary  degree  of  Master  of  Arts 
already  mentioned,  appointments  as  corresponding 
member  of  the  Oneida  County,  the  New  York,  Wis 
consin  and  Rhode  Island  Historical  societies,  and  the 
New  York  and  New  England  Genealogical  and 
Biographical  societies.  His  most  recent  historical 
work  was  the  "  History  of  Jane  McCrea,"  which  ap 
peared  in  the  local  press,  and  which  he  was  getting  in 
readiness  to  publish  in  book-form.  He  left  a  valuable 
collection  of  MSS.  and  historical  miscellany,  which 
will  prove  treasure-trove  to  some  future  historian.  In 
January,  1891,  Dr.  Holden's  wife  died  suddenly.  For 
some  months  the  doctor  had  been  in  feeble  health. 
He  sank  under  the  additional  blow,  till  death  relieved 
him  of  the  cares  and  troubles  of  this  life.  He  fell 
asleep  on  July  igth,  1891,  and  his  funeral  was  largely 
attended  by  the  various  societies  to  which  he  belonged, 
the  services  being  under  Masonic  auspices.  A  local 
paper  writes  his  epitaph  as  follows:  "  A  patriot  and 
philanthropist  was  laid  at  rest  yesterday,  when  the 
remains  of  Dr.  A.  W.  Holden  were  consigned  to 
mother  earth.  He  was  an  extensive  writer  and  the 
author  of  valuable  local  histories.  He  was  a  kind- 
hearted,  genial  gentleman  and  a  practical  Christian 
always.  Peace  to  his  ashes." 


BURGOYNE  INDEX. 


Acland,     Lady     Harriet, 

130,  1 86,  271,  303. 
Adams,  John,  89. 
Alexander,  James,  9. 
Allen,  Ethan,  220. 
Allen,    Parson     Thomas, 

225,  227. 

Allen,  Joseph,  238. 
Allen's    History,    quoted, 

256. 

Anthony,  Walter,  42, 
Arnold,  Gen.,  57,  83,88, 

132. 
Auringer,     Rev.     O.     C., 

Sketch  of,  134. 
Ayers,  Robert,  190. 

BALLADS  AND  POEMS: 
Burgoyne's  Proclamation, 

7- 
The   Progress  of  Sir  Jack 

Brag,  27. 

Burgoyne's  Defeat,  29. 
The    Fate    of  John    Bur- 

goyne,  32. 
The  Capture  at  Saratoga, 

36. 


Burgoyne's  Advance  and 
Fall,  38. 

St.  Glair's  Retreat  and 
Burgoyne's  Defeat,  41. 

The  Fall  of  Burgoyne,  48. 

An  Answer  for  the  Mes 
sengers  of  the  Nation, 

49- 
The    First  Chapter  of  the 

Lamentations    of  Gen 
eral  Burgoyne,  52. 

A  Dialogue  between  Col. 
Paine  and  Miss  Clo- 
rinda  Fairchild,  60. 

A  Short  Review  of  Bur 
goyne's  Expedition,  62. 

Four  Burgoyne  Epigrams, 
66. 

The  Halcyon  Days  of 
Old  England,  69. 

Two    Burgoyne    Letters, 

71- 

An  Old  Verse,  73. 

Epitaph,  74. 
Merz  Kater,  73. 
To  the  Relics  of  my  Brit 
ish  Grenadier,  75. 


354 


Burgoyne  Index. 


Burgoyne's     Defeat,     An 

Ancient  Ditty,  80. 
The      North     Campaign, 

86. 

The  Carpet  Knight,  93. 
The    Church    and    King 

Club,  97. 
Satirical  Verses  in  Honor 

of   Sir  John  Burgoyne, 

99- 
Song   of   a    Wagoner  in 

Gates's  Army,  105. 

The  Restored  Captain, 
1 06. 

The  Burial  of  Gen.  Fraser, 
114. 

The  Burial  of  Gen.  Fra 
ser,  No.  2,  1 1 8. 

The  Burial  of  Gen.  Fra 
ser,  No.  3,  119. 

The  Burial  of  Gen.  Fra 
ser,  No.  4,  124. 

The  Episode  of  Jane 
McCrea,  134. 

Jane  McCrea,  176. 

Jane  McCrea,  186. 

Reflections  at  the  Grave 
of  Jane  McCrea,  194. 

Jane  McCrea,  195. 

The  Tragical  Death  of 
Miss  Jane  McCrea,  201. 

Jane  McCrea,  203. 

Lines  on  Jane  McCrea, 
205. 

Oriskany,  208. 


Die  Schlacht  von  Oris 
kany,  210. 

Paean  to  Oriskany,  212. 

Ode  on  the  Battle  of 
Bennington,  215. 

The  Battle  of  Bennington, 
218. 

The  Battle  of  Benning 
ton,  219. 

Ode  on  the  Veterans  of 
the  Battle  of  Benning 
ton,  224. 

Parson  Allen's  Ride,  225. 

Hymn  on  the  Battle  of 
Bennington,  228. 

The  Battle  of  Benning 
ton,  229. 

Song   about  Bennington, 

233- 
A  Story  of  Bemus  Heights, 

234. 

Poem  on  the  occasion 
of  Battle  of  Bemus 
Heights,  236. 

Poem  on  Saratoga,  by 
Alfred  B.  Street,  243. 

The  Surrender  of  Bur 
goyne,  254. 

The  Field  of  the  Ground 
ed  Arms,  Saratoga, 
264. 

Saratoga,  268. 

The  Star-Spangled  Ban 
ner  by  Butler,  273. 

Ballston  Spa.,  190. 


Burgoyne  Index. 


355 


Balcarras,    Lord,    Sketch 

of,  37- 

Bancroft,  George,  236. 
Barlow,   Joel,    Sketch  of, 

203. 

Barton,  William,  26. 
Battenkill,  63. 
Bauman,    Col.  Sebastian, 

101. 

Bedlow,  Hon.  Henry,  134. 
Belden,   B.  L.,  6 ;  Sketch 

of,  101. 
Bemus    Heights,     Battle 

of,  3,  241. 
Bemus,       The       Correct 

Spelling,  342. 
Bennington,   29,    56,  215, 

216,  224,  230,  234. 
Bess,  Queen,  227. 
Bliss,  Charles  M.,  226. 
Boies,    Lura     A.,  Sketch 

of,  119,  176. 
Booth  Bros.,  12. 
Botta,  Anna  C.,  224. 
Bouquet  River,  44. 
Boyd,  Lieut.  Thos.,  293. 
Brown,  Col.  John,  36. 
Brunswickers,  57. 
Bruce,  Wallace,  Sketch  of, 

225. 

Brooks,  Col.,  Sketch  of,  89. 
Brudenell,  Parson,  112. 
Bryant, William  C.,  Sketch 

of,  218. 
Bull  Run,  255. 


Bunker  Hill,  2,  23,  92,  206. 
Burgoyne,    Gen.,    Sketch 

of,  i,  1  6,  21. 
Burgoyne,  Sir  John,  7. 
Butler,  B.  C,  273. 
Butler,  Col.  Wm.,  293. 
Butler,  Prof.  J.  D.,  66. 
Canning,    E.   W.    B.,    75, 


Carey,  Henry,  4. 
Carlton,  Gen.,  2,37,  68,  69. 
Carnarvon,  Earl  of,  186. 
Case,  Rev.  W.,  41. 
Catamount  Tavern,  225. 
Caulfield,  Miss  Susan,  6. 
Champlain,  Lake,  2,  34,  59. 
Chapin,  Rev.  E.  H.,  215. 
Cilley,  Col.,  234. 
Clinton,  Sir  Henry,  2,  22, 

256. 

Cobble  Hill,  23. 
Cochran,  Deacon  Isaac,67. 
Coldstream  Guards,  i. 
Collins,  Isaac,  67. 
Columbiad,  a  Poem,  204. 
Commercial     Advertiser^ 

118. 

Copwell,  Rev.,  236. 
Cook,  Col.  Thaddeus,  84. 
Cook,  Mrs.  Rachel  A.,  190. 
Cook,  Ransom,  190. 
Cooper,  James  Fenimore, 


^         . 
Council    of    Safety,    220, 

252. 


356 


Burgoyne  Index. 


Cummings,  Rev.  Hooper, 

132. 

Craig,  Capt,  69. 
Crandall,  Chas.,  268. 
Crown  Point,  2. 

Davidson  Sisters,  120. 

Dearborn,  Gen.,  77. 

De  Peyster,  Gen.,  57,  208, 

254>  263. 

Derby,  Earl  of,  i. 
Dieskau,  Gen.,  77. 
Dinsmore,  Robert,  62. 
Disney,  A.,  68. 
Drake,  J.  R.,  264. 
Duluth,a  Half  Breed,  130. 
D wight,  Pres.,  9,  105. 
Dwight,  Theodore,  124. 

Edwards,  Ed.,  66. 
Evarts,  Hon.Wm.  M.,  227. 
Evening  Post,  N.  Y.,  218, 
264. 

Fay,  Dr.  J.,  220. 

Fay,  Stephen,  220. 

Fellows,  Gen.,  253. 

Fitzgerald,  Lord,  224. 

Fish  Creek,  28. 

Fort  Anne,  2,  261. 

Fort    Edward,    2,   29,  59, 

120,  130,  189,  256. 
Fort     Edward    Institute, 

196. 
Fort  Independence,  16. 


Fort  Hardy,  253,  256. 

Fort  Miller,  63. 

Fort  Plain,  196. 

Fort  Ticonderoga,  2,  34, 

43>  53.  255- 
Fort  William  Henry,  255. 

Fraser,   Gen.,    18,  38,  63, 

1 1 1. 
Freeman's    Farm,    Battle 

of,  257. 
Freneau,  Philip,  38. 

Gaine,  Hugh,  67. 

Gates,  Gen.,  3,  18,  29,  53, 

88,  125,  256,  291. 
George  III.,  4,  23. 
George  IV.,  55. 
George,  Lake,  56,  75,252. 
Germaine,  Lord    George, 

1*3- 

Glens  Falls,  N.  Y.,  134. 

Golden  Hill,  Battle  of,  67. 
Gordon,  Rev.  Wm.,  262. 
Great  Barrington,  218. 
Greeley,  Horace,  215. 
Griswold,  Rev.  R.,  27. 

Hale,  Mrs.  Sarah  J.,  205. 
Halifax,  16. 

Halleck,  Fitz-Greene,  264. 
Hamilton,  Alex.,  6,  38. 
Hastings,  Warren,  6. 
Hay,  Hon.  Wm.,  120. 
Hayes,  Pres.  R.  B.,  229. 
Herbert,  Wm.,  186. 


Burgoyne  Index. 


357 


Herkimer,  Gen.,  36,  256. 
Hilmer,  Chas.  D.,  264. 
Holden,    Dr.,   Sketch    of, 

349- 

Holden,  James  H.,  349. 
Hoosic  Falls,  230. 
Horicon  (Lake   George), 

252. 
Hoyt,  Gen.  E.,  302. 

Jefferson,  Thos.,  39. 
Jennings,  Rev.,  216. 
Johnson,  Sir  William,  28, 

89,  1 08. 

Jones,   David,  128,  190. 
Jordan,  J.  W.,  75. 

King,  Rev.  Jos.  E.,  195. 
Knox,  Gen.,  18. 
Kosciusko,  Gen.,  132. 

Lamb,     Col.      Anthony, 

101. 

Lebanon,  74. 

Lee,  Gen.  Chas.,  8,  186. 

Le   Loup,   a    Wyandotte 

Chief,  130,  190. 
Lexington,  Battle  of,  67. 
Liancourt,  Duke  de,  258. 
Liberty  Boys,  67. 
Lincoln,  Gen.,  93. 
Lincoln,  Pres.,  206. 
Livingston,  Gen.,  8. 
Locke,  Hon.  S.  D.,  230. 
Lossing,  B.  J.,  26,  56. 


Maccaroni  Club,  20. 
Markham,  J.  C.,  51,  71. 
Marvin,  James  M.,  57. 
McCrea,   Jane    128,    204, 

206. 

McCrea,  John,  128. 
McCrea,  Rev.,  M.,   202. 
McNeil,  Mrs.,  130. 
Meal  Market,  67. 
Mohawk  River,  2. 
Montgomery,     Gen.,    25, 

128.' 

Montreal,  25. 
Morgan,  Gen.,  2,   18,  112, 

293- 

Moses  Kill,  132. 

Mount  Defiance,  87. 
Munsell,  Joel,  220. 
Murphy,  "  Tim,"  19,  290. 

Nevvbury,  Jeremiah,  268. 
New  Amsterdam,  257. 
Nowell,  Garrett,  67. 

Oriskany,   Battle  of,    255, 
261. 

Page,  Elizabeth,  232. 
Paterson,  77. 
Peck,  Rev.  J.  T.,  195. 
Phillips,  Gen.,  34. 
Pittsfield,220. 
Poor,  Gen.,  77. 
Posey,  Maj.,  293. 
Post,  Daniel  H.,  347. 


358 


Burgoyne  Index. 


Prescott,  Gen.,  25. 
Prior,  Matthew,  23. 
Prison  Ship,  38. 
Poultney  Academy,  195. 
Pullman,  George  M.,  57. 
Putnam,  Gen.,  16. 

Quaker    Springs,   N.    Y., 
64. 

Raleigh,  Sir  Walter,  23. 
Ramsey,  quoted,  56. 
Rawdon,  Lord,  15. 
Riedesel,    Mrs.    Gen.,    6, 

24,  130,  1 86. 
Rivington,  James,  96. 
Rodman,    Rev.     Thomas 

P.,  229. 
Rogers,     Gen.     Horatio, 

7»  113- 

Sandy  Hill,   N.  Y.,    120, 

189. 

Saratoga  Lake,  28. 
Saratoga    Map,    57,    114, 

231. 
Saratoga  Monument,    12, 

104,  244. 
Schuyler,  Gen.  Philip,  29, 

56,  88,  255,  258. 
Schuyler  Mills,  63. 
Schuylersville,  N.  Y.,  128. 
Shay,  Dan,  78. 
Skene,  Philip,  29,  55,  72. 


Skenesborough  (White 
hall,  N.Y.),  1 6,  56,129. 

Smith,  William,  Q. 

Society  Library,  N.  Y.,  9. 

Stanley,  Lady,  i. 

Stansbury,  93. 

Stark,  Gen.,  217,  227,  228, 
241. 

Stark,  Molly,  217,  222, 
226. 

St.  Clair,  Gen.,  34,  43>  87, 
88. 

Steadman,  quoted,  84. 

Steuben,  Gen.,  92. 

Stevens,  Col.,  88. 

St.  Leger,  Gen.,  89,  256. 

Stockbridge  Indians,  75. 

Stone,  Mrs.  Charles,  133. 

Stone's  "  Orderly  Book  of 
Sir  John  Johnson,"  257. 

Street,  Albert  B.,  243. 

Strong,  Capt.  John,  220. 

Strong,  Catherine,  220. 

Sugar  Loaf  Hill,  43. 

Taylor,  Rev.  H.  B.,   196. 
Three  Rivers,  37. 
Trumbull,   J.,   15,    34,  43, 

87. 

Union    Cemetery,   Sandy 

Hill,  N.  Y.,  120. 
Union  College,  236. 

Van  Doren,  Rev.  D.,  254. 


Burgoyne  Index.  359 


Van  Vecton,  Col.,  347. 

Washington,     Gen.,      16, 

29>  39- 
Walloomsack,   231. 

Waldenburg,  J.  F.,  219. 
Walvvorth,  Mrs.  E.  H.,  57. 
Walpole,  Horace,  68,  69. 
Walpole,  Robert,  68. 
Warren,  Gen.,  219. 


Wayne,  Gen.,  88. 
Williams,  Roger,  268. 
Williams,  Col.  K,  75. 
Williams,  Rev.  S.,  65. 
Wilkes,  John,  23. 
Wilson,  Gen.  Jas.  G.,  264. 


Yankee    Doodle,    Origin 
of,  20,  60. 


ERRATA. 


Page  37,  5th  line  from  bottom,  for  "  Thompson," 
read  Thomas. 

Page  96,  3d  line  from  bottom,  for  "  mind,"  read 
wind. 

Page  102,  last  line,  for  "  is"  read  are. 

Page  ii3,2d  line  from  bottom,  for  "  Ropes,"  read 
Rogers. 

Page  114,  3d  line  from  top,  for  "  Lilliman,"  read 
Silliman. 

Page  1 88,  last  line,  for  "  Appendix  No.  III.,"  read 
Appendix  No.  X. 

Page  258,  7th  line  from  bottom,  for  (<  contemplat 
ed,"  read  present. 

Page  335>  7tn  lme  fr°m  toP>  f°r  "  mauvis,"  read 
Mauris. 

Page  349,  7th  line  from  top,  for  "  Lucratia,"  read 
Lucretia. 


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